


Keen Buffy

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel The Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Human AU, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Buffy Summers was an American rookie cop on exchange in the UK, and Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was the Detective Sergeant in charge of her, Spike was his shady former partner, Giles owned a bookshop, and Fred Burkle worked in the crime lab -- it might look something like this.  (Also, nobody's a vampire in this AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impending Disasters

**Author's Note:**

> This is a murder mystery, so I needed bodies, so some beloved characters might show up dead. I plead necessity rather than malice toward those characters!
> 
> Note on the writing: In addition to the obvious allusions to 'Buffy' &amp; 'Angel', this story was inspired by a lot of other sources, including the TV show 'Keen Eddie,' and the detective novels of Reginald Hill, Peter Robinson, and Ruth Rendell. Allusions are sprinkled pretty freely throughout, and are meant as homage. When I wrote this story, I intended a lot of it specifically for people I knew who were familiar with the same sources, so at times I sprinkled direct quotes from those sources ('Buffy,' 'Angel', 'Firefly,' 'The Wire,' etc -- ) through the story, assuming that people would get them. Most of these were acknowledged in notes to the original story postings at LJ, but I've stripped those comments off in posting here, so at this point, it's hard to separate out what was a quote and what was original to me, which, if I was a professional writer, I'd feel kind of bad about. I hope if you do come across something of that sort while reading, you take it in the spirit that it was intended.

"It's the end of the world," said Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

"Now, there." Winifred Burkle reached onto his desk and gently placed her fingers on the back of his hand. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"Yes, it is," Wesley insisted, "I can't imagine a way that it could be any worse." But he was already lying. It could easily have been worse. The most beautiful woman he had ever met could not be sitting across from him. She could not be pressing her hand against his skin. As the head of the divisional forensics lab, she could have trusted an underling to bring crime scene reports by the police station. Surely, he thought, the occasion didn't completely justify her presence in person. They had been friends almost since she came to Yorkshire, but lately it had seemed like something more might be growing between them. And today, she had made a point to stop by his office, could she really be sending him a signal, could she be trying to say. . .

"I swear, you remind me so much of cousin Cory from Tulsa." She patted his hand and stood up. "Both of you worry too much."

_No,_ Wesley thought, looking down at his desk and pretending to shuffle papers around, in order to hide the flush rising to his cheeks. _This day could definitely not be any worse._ "It's not an idle worry, Fred." He heard himself getting testy, but couldn't seem to stop. "I'm at an age where I should be looking at promotion from sergeant to detective inspector. It shows exactly what this department thinks of me that, instead, I'm being assigned to baby-sit a tourist who wants to play detective constable. An _American_ tourist," he added with distaste.

Fred's brow wrinkled, and she didn't sound entirely playful as she said, "You have something against Americans?"

"No," he said hastily. "Of course I didn't mean you. The department recruited you because they had heard such good things about your work in London while you were taking your degree. This Bunny Saunders is no more than that most American of American things, a photo opportunity."

"Buffy Summers," Fred corrected. "And she graduated at the top of her class from the police academy in Los Angeles, and served two years in uniform. . .what? So I read about her in the paper."

"And let me guess, there was a picture. Because it was, as I mentioned, a photo opportunity." He shook his head. "I can guarantee I won't have the chance to do any real casework as long as I'm stuck supervising her." He shook his head. "And it's not as though I'm being punished for anything I've done. It's all about bloody politics."

"Well, you could. . ." Fred spoke hesitantly, and he heard it in her voice, that need to reconcile, the belief in talking things over and solving them rationally and making them better. It was the most American thing about her, and somehow it led into a fantasy where she was lying across his desk, pulling at the buttons of her conservative slacks, guiding his hand into her blouse and saying. . ."You could talk to your father."

"No!" Wesley felt actual pain as he winced from the suggestion. She looked at him curiously, and he realized how loudly he had spoken.

"I just meant because he's in politics," she said quietly.

_I'm sure this is the last friendly visit she pays at the office,_ he thought. And then, _Cousin Cory from Tulsa_? Wesley tried to sound calmer as he explained, "But you see, that's exactly the thing that I can't do, because if I do it, it only proves that I'm what they think I am. Some berk with a posh education and an influential father."

"Wesley. . ." Fred stepped closer to him, and he couldn't help it, he loved the way she said his name, he wanted it to mean something. "Wesley, you know you're a good detective. What do you care what other people think?"

"I. . ." He started to answer, to say all the very good reasons he had learned that image mattered for a young detective sergeant trying to get the job done, but at the moment he couldn't think of any of them.

Voices started to clamor out in the squadroom, and Fred whirled around and sprinted to the doorway. "That must be her."

Wesley jumped to his feet, not bothering to hide his own curiosity, and came to stand behind Fred. "Oh God," he said. "This is even worse than I thought."

"Why?" Fred asked.

"Look at her," he said. "I think she's wearing leather trousers."

*

Taking in the rumpled suits on the men in the squadroom, the pressed khakis and Oxford shirts on the handful of women, Buffy Summers immediately began to suspect that her pants were a mistake. She had spent her two years at the LAPD as a uniformed officer, and she was so excited to break out of the boxy, unflattering blues that she just might have overcompensated in the direction of form-fitting. It was true that the leather was functional; she had opted for a motorbike instead of testing her ever-sketchy driving skills on the wrong side of the highway, and her handful of biker friends on the L.A. force assured her that cowhide was the only way to keep out the wind. Still, she had to admit that the English locale stirred certain Diana Rigg-on-_The Avengers_ fantasies. But based on the looks she got walking into the squadroom, it seemed that her new colleagues were thinking less Emma Peel, and more Mistress of Pain.

The most horrified look came from a tall dark-haired man, who wore glasses and a most definitely non-rumpled suit. Aside from the expression of dismay, he looked like such a photospread from British GQ that, when he offered her a hand and said _Detective Constable Summers, I presume? Sergeant Pryce, _ she almost looked around for hidden cameras to see if she was being _Punk'd_. She was supposed to be trained by a crochety old man like Inspector Morse or Inspector Frost –- she had watched a bunch of these shows on BBC America while waiting to see if she had won the overseas assignment. Now it looked like she was going to be riding around in a car with Pierce Brosnan instead of John Thaw. Which, considering her history, and the situation that had helped to bring her here, was so very very not funny.

Then the woman next to the sergeant – dark-haired and slim, a few years older than Buffy, perhaps – offered her own hand, and said, "Fred Burkle, it's so great to meet you." Buffy was practicing the new game of trying to place a person's origin based on accent, so it took her a moment to register that this one screamed, "Texas."

"You're American?" Buffy said.

"My, and they told me you were keen," said Mr. British-GQ, so mildly that it took Buffy a moment to be certain of the sarcasm. But the woman called Fred cast a glance at him that told Buffy this wasn't his normal attitude. He seemed to catch the look and then make a redoubled effort at civil behavior. "Dr. Burkle is from Texas," he said with forced joviality. "But we try not to hold it against her."

Dr. Burkle seemed to swerve away from the sergeant's jest. Pryce kept his eyes on her, while she focused on Buffy. "We should have an American girls' night out. I'll bring you the adaptor plugs nobody told you that you would need."

"Great," Buffy stammered, smiling because Fred had anticipated her greatest frustration on moving into her new flat –- the fact that none of the appliances she had brought from L.A. had plugs to fit the outlets. "But don't you need them?"

"Oh," she dismissed, "I make my own. Just a little something I like to throw together."

Pryce cleared his throat. "Fred, I'll need to take DC Summers to the superintendent's office, so. . ."

"It's OK," she said, still looking at Buffy. "Just call me soon." She patted the sergeant's shoulder. "You can get my info from Wesley here." She winked. "We're buds."

"Yes, of course," he said, "Very good," and his eyes followed Dr. Burkle long after he should have turned his attention to Buffy. _So that's how that's gonna be,_ she thought, and had a brief flash of sympathy before he turned his eyes on her. "Constable Summers, you seem to be aware that this is a plainclothes assignment. Perhaps you should consider some clothes that are rather, well, _plainer_."

"Oh, don't be such a prig, Wyndsley," a voice boomed from behind them. "I think the lady looks quite fetching." She turned to see a distinguished-looking older man in a professorish tweed suit, with a clipped gray beard. He offered his hand, "Detective Superintendent Quentin Travers." His eyes traveled over her in a way that she didn't particularly like, and she decided that she would be wearing khakis tomorrow. The sergeant's disapproval might actually have egged her on, but Travers' praise had the opposite effect. Didn't English people know about reverse psychology? "My office, Pryce," he said, looking over her at the younger man. "Or were you planning on standing out here all day?"

"Of course." The sergeant gave a thin smile that Buffy immediately pegged as his very special English version of "Go fuck yourself." She wondered if Travers knew this.

As the three walked toward the super's office, he explained. "DS Pryce reports to me. Actually, he reports to the Detective Inspector who reports to the Detective Chief Inspector who reports to me. The British system tends toward hierarchy, I'm afraid. But as you present a special case, DC Summers, you should never be afraid to come directly to the top of the food chain. Keep the sergeant on his toes." Then he smiled his own fuck-you smile back at Pryce. _Yup,_, Buffy decided. _This is an old game between them, and neither of them is going to come out and say it._. She wondered what the story was, what kind of long-running drama she had walked into the middle of.

"Don't you agree, DC Summers?" Travers asked her.

"Yes, sir." Buffy nodded, wondering what she had just agreed to. She had been busy trying to unravel the dynamic between these men, while the superintendent was talking. And talking. And talking. All right, so she had never been a very good listener. She would be able to process everything better by doing it. And she could get the crib notes from Sergeant Pryce. Somehow she imagined that, if there were any important no-nos in the speech, she would be hearing them from the sergeant. Repeatedly.

But now she tried to tune in, as Travers seemed to be speaking about their first assignment. ". . .in order to ease the constable into her new duties and familiarize her with procedures, you'll be assigned some old cases to review. Re-canvass with a fresh set of eyes, see if there is anything the original investigators missed." He nodded toward a box of files on his desk. "I'd like you to start with Ethan Rayne."

"Old cases," said Pryce. "Of course, sir." At least, his voice said this. His eyes said _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._ "We'll just need to speak to the original investigating officer so that we don't duplicate. . ."

Travers waved a hand dismissively. "When I say fresh, I mean fresh. I would prefer to leave Sergeant Harker completely out of this."

Now came the first crack in Pryce's perfect composure. "Harker??" He said. "You're asking me. . .us. . .to go over ground that's been trod by William Harker? I don't suppose --" Casting a look at Buffy, he said, "Sir, I would prefer to discuss this in private."

"You have nothing to say to me," Travers said coldly. "That cannot be said in front of Constable Summers. If she hasn't heard, she certainly will."

"Well, then," Pryce continued. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with avoiding massive lawsuits and the possibility of every case that _former_ Sergeant Harker touched being thrown out of court? You see, Miss Summers," he said. "Even in Yorkshire we have our little one-man Ramparts scandal."

"Sergeant Harker had his differences with Yorkshire CID," Travers said. "But we parted on amiable terms, and there is no reason to poison our new trainee against him." He leveled a finger at her. "Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper." Looking up at Pryce, he said, "I don't buy this William the Bloody nonsense for a moment."

"Speaking respectfully, Sir?" said Pryce. "That's because you don't know Will Harker the way I do."

"Oh, yes, Wyndsley," Travers answered. "You know everyone, don't you? Which reminds me. . ." He reached into his pocket and drew out an old-fashioned men's watch. "Nine twenty-two, Greenwich Mean Time. You have your assignment. I'll be interested in exactly how long it takes for me to hear from your father."

Buffy hadn't thought it would be possible for the sergeant to grow any stiffer, but he managed to straighten his tall form even more, and his face went white as he said, "That won't be happening, sir."

"See to it, then," he answered. Rather than dismissing them, he simply looked down at his desk and started writing, as if they weren't there. Buffy looked at Pryce for a cue. He nodded at the box of files, then the door, so she lifted them, then followed him.

When they were in the hall, she said, "Brass, huh? Jackasses on either side of the pond."

"What's that?" He kept walking, briskly, letting her struggle to keep up with his long legs. Over his shoulder, he said, "I'd advise you to show a little more respect."

"Hey, if I could do the 'say polite things but obviously want to rip each other's throats out' kind of respect as well as you guys? I'd be all over that. But I'm not British enough to compete, so I just have to say what I think. Who's your father?"

Pryce stopped so that Buffy and her box ran into him. He turned the sharp eyes on her now. Blue, she saw, they were very blue. "You're joking, right?" She shook her head. "You've met him. Had your picture taken with him. The local member of Parliament? It was his bright idea for Yorkshire to participate in this exchange program."

"Oh, him?" she said. "That Roger Windmill guy?"

"Wyndam-Pryce, though I've managed to avoid using the whole ridiculous moniker. Most of the time." He shook his head to dismiss the subject, and pointed at her box of files. "Let us talk about these cases."

"OK," said Buffy. "Who's William Harker?"

"Someone for us to avoid. And by us, I particularly mean you." He shook his head. "Will Harker could get his teeth in a case and worry it like a terrier with a rat. And leave it in about as big a mess. But then, if it didn't tie in to one of his pet obsessions, there's a chance he never looked into it at all. So as for this Rayne case, it may be a Chernobyl or a Siberia."

"Any chance it's something we can actually solve?"

"That," he said, looking at her file. "Is what we'll have to see about, Detective Summers."

"You know, you can call me Buffy."

"No," Pryce said, with the first hint of a smile that wasn't exactly a 'Fuck-you.' "Not with a straight face, I can't. Will Summers do?"

"Yes, Wyndsley." She smiled with false innocence.

"If your blasted colonial informality can't get wrap your tongue around sergeant, 'Wesley' will be fine."

"Any chance this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?"

Wesley leveled his gaze at her. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."


	2. Chance Meetings

Buffy hefted the box of paperwork and stepped into the parking garage, looking for the car Sergeant Pryce had described. She had spent the morning filling out forms in triplicate, memorizing the instructions on other forms, and glancing longingly at the Rayne casefile. But first things first, the sergeant insisted. She fantasized about spilling white out over his way-too-expensive-for-a-cop shoes, but just when her teeth were on edge, he proposed taking a lunch break at the local pub. "Where all the real work gets done," he said, and she thought he was kidding, until he dropped the box into her arms and handed her his car keys.

Of course, she couldn't actually find his car. Wesley had stayed back to check out with the desk sergeant, and all these bland grey and black English vehicles looked the same. She hadn't really expected to ride around in a Cooper Mini with the Union Jack painted on the roof, but did Yorkshire police have to be so boring? She couldn't imagine any of the L.A. cops she knew being caught dead in these things.

Which led to thoughts of Liam and his convertible, and that last day at the reservoir, the wind in her hair, the smell of meat on the grill because whatever else you could say about the man, he made a great bloody burger. And the way they had both agreed that they needed space, that he was still a married man and needed to see what might happen with Kate, and Connor, and God knew her own father was in Spain with his stupid secretary, and Buffy didn't think she had it in her to be the other woman. . . but Liam, and his eyes and his arms and the way he was always trying to do the right thing, to make everybody happy but himself. _Buffy, sometimes I think that if I was ever happy for a minute, the world would spin off its axis, and I've never met anyone who makes me happy the way you do, and I think that means we need to be apart. _ Liam and the way he could make her feel like a pathetic lost little girl, not by anything that was his fault, just by loving her, and why hadn't anybody ever told her that love was a curse as often as it was a blessing and. . .

A footfall sounded behind her. Bracing herself, she moved one hand to her nightstick and called, "Who's there?" Buffy had always hated carrying a gun, but for a moment she missed it. Another footstep echoed, this time seeming to come from the other direction, and then a haunting whistle rose into the air. She recognized the tune, "Rain – drops keep fall- ing on my head."

"Hello?" she demanded, and at the same time the name on the murder file rose into her mind. _Rayne_. "Who's there?" she repeated.

"If I'm not mistaken, it's the new American bird. Fresh blood." The accent was city. London, probably. Light years from the clipped BBC tones of her sergeant. She turned around, slowly, three-hundred-sixty degrees, trying to make out the source of the voice. "Fresh blood's missing her gun, I wager. I never did understand why this country refused to properly arm its policemen. Particularly its policewomen. Leaves them vulnerable to those would do them harm."

"I don't need any gun." She set the files on the floor and lifted the nightstick. "Don't like the things. Hardly ever helpful. This stick I know how to use. And I was the city police athletic league judo and karate champion two years running."

"They have a girls' division? How enlightened. Of course," he sighed. "Hands or arms, you can't hit the thing you can't see." Now the voice was clearly behind her, and she turned to see a man stepping out of the shadows. The glow of a cigarette lit his long menacing face, high cheekbones skeletal in the orange light. His long black coat moved with his stride as he approached her, stopping only to ash his cigarette on the roof of a car. "I've got a message for your boss, fresh blood." Buffy planted her feet and squared her shoulders forward. "Relax, love. I'm one of the good guys."

"That's open to question." Sergeant Pryce's voice rang from across the garage. "If you have a message, Harker, give it to me. Leave my men out of this."

"Men?" The stranger mouthed at Buffy, and raised an eyebrow. The brows were dark, but his hair was a rather extraordinary shade of bleach blonde, with dark roots growing in.

_Harker,_ she thought. _William the Bloody?_ She could imagine him as a cop-gone-bad easily enough. Although, she had come onto the LAPD long after the Ramparts scandal broke, she had met a few holdovers, officers who weren't quite deep enough in the morass to lose their jobs, but who had come out less than squeaky clean. Others who had gone so deep undercover they couldn't find their way up anymore. "You're Sergeant Harker?"

"Former," called Pryce, moving toward them.

Harker leaned toward Buffy and offered his hand. "Call me Spike."

"Please don't," Wesley interjected. "You'll just encourage him."

"Spike?" She looked into his piercing blue eyes and accepted his strong, long-fingered grip on her palm. "I'm Buffy. You're not on the force any more, so what' your interest here? Are you, like, a private investigator."

"You might say that." Spike tilted his head. Buffy had never realized that such a simple gesture could look so insolent.

Pryce moved to step between them, and he turned that cold look on Buffy. She was disregarding his wishes about Harker, but, well, that was his problem. She wanted to understand Harker's situation for herself, and her sergeant was clearly too emotionally involved to give an objective assessment. Besides, she had to calculate that this Spike might turn out to be a valuable ally. Perhaps moreso than Pryce, who seemed to be on the outs with the powers-that-were. It was her instinct to like Wesley, but she also knew that it could be a mistake to get too entrenched in one camp too early in her career.

At the moment, Pryce was saving most of his fuck-you looks for Spike Harker. "He's a lot like a private inquiry agent," Wesley said. "Except that to actually _be_ a P.I., he would need a license that no agency in the United Kingdom would give to a man with his record."

"Oh what now, Wyndsley? Are you going to tell Daddy on me? You won't of course. Because you need to know the things that I can tell you."

"If you have a message for me, spit it out."

"Right then. Skip the foreplay." Spike nodded and spoke one word. "Rayne."

"It's autumn in Yorkshire," Wesley answered. "Rain hardly qualifies as news."

"Ethan Rayne," Spike answered. "Your corpse."

"I know. I just thought I'd waste some of your time in exchange for your persistence in wasting mine."

"I spent a lot of time with that case."

"Oh joy," Wesley rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then said to Buffy. "It's to be Chernobyl then." Looking back at Harker, he said, "Are you warning me off, or does your message actually involve information we can use?"

"Information that's up your alley," Spike answered. "Not that you deserve it but. . ." He cast his eyes at Buffy. "Might keep the lady entertained." Then as if she weren't there, he said. "I like this one, you know. She might be good for you. Help you get your rocks off, save you from mooning over Labcoat Barbie all the livelong day."

Buffy curled her lip at Spike, deciding Pryce might have a point about him. "You're gross."

Spike turned to her and did an uncanny imitation of a SoCal valley girl accent. "Gross. Oh my God. Like, gag me with a purple smurf." Then, looking at Wesley, he reverted to his regular voice and said, "Oh, yes, she'll do nicely."

"Message?" Wesley repeated, and now his voice was less 'Fuck you,' and more 'I'd like to kill you with a teaspoon and serve your severed head with crumpets.'

"Books. I hear old Ethan liked books. I understand you might want to pay a visit to your friend Ripper."

Wesley looked as though this meant something, but his eyes narrowed. "Harker, if I find out this is a wild goose, so help me. . ."

He spread his hands, and backed away, whistling the "raindrops" song again. Wesley rolled his eyes and turned to his car. The one, Buffy noticed, that Spike had ashed on. "Oh, Wyndsley!" Spike called. Pryce stiffened but didn't turn, which seemed enough encouragement. "Three more words. Dog. Sheep. Deer."

Wesley whirled. "What?"

"You heard me," Spike answered.

"And I say again, you had _better_ not be wasting my time."

"I tremble before your idle threats. Truly, truly I do." He turned his back, dropped his cigarette, and called over his shoulder. "Ask your friend Ripper."

Wesley stared after Spike and, as soon he was gone, turned to the car, placed his hands on the roof, and kicked the tire ferociously three times. Then he smiled wanly at Buffy. "Sorry for that display."

"It's OK." She frowned after Spike. "I violently dislike that guy."

"I could tell," Pryce answered dryly, "By the way you were holding hands."

"I _shook_ his hand," she said. "And among my people? The non-stuffy people of the world? That doesn't exactly mean we're engaged."

"But it does make me wonder what exactly compels you to act friendly with someone I've specifically instructed you to avoid."

"Maybe the same thing that makes you instruct me to avoid people I could understand better if I talked to them myself."

He sighed and started to open the driver's side door. Then, seeing the ash on the roof, he scowled, wiped it off with his hand, and kicked the tire again. "Any more questions?" he asked Buffy.

"Dog, sheep, deer?"

"Nothing," he said firmly. "Harker's crazy talk."

"So you mean questions you feel like answering. All right then. You have friends named Ripper?"

He looked up at her with an almost-real smile. "Now him, you can see for yourself."

 

*

The bell on the little door jingled, as Wesley entered, and Buffy squeezed after him. The must of mildew, old paper, and binding glue hit his nostrils as keenly as ever. Wesley often felt that he didn't have much understanding of the things he loved, or why he loved them, but he had no doubts about the readers' lust that ignited every time he walked into a bookshop. At university, he had toyed with a course of study in library science, or linguistics, before settling on the more practical criminology degree. This old-book smell always made him consider the virtues of the contemplative life he had rejected.

Even before he looked at Buffy, he knew her nose would be curled up like a rabbit's, and sure enough she sniffed and frowned, then whispered, "What does this guy rip, exactly?"

The front of the shop was empty, and it struck Wesley that it might be worthwhile to play this a little close to the chest. He placed a hand on Buffy's arm and said quietly. "For now, let's pretend you don't know me. We didn't walk in together, you're just browsing. Stay close enough to listen. Try to act like you belong here." His eyes wandered to her trousers. "Insofar as that's possible. See about something in khaki, do you think?"

She nodded. "New pants, check."

He almost choked. "Really, Summers, that's a private matter." Then he remembered that to an American pants _were_ trousers, rather than underwear. Fortunately, before he had time to explain his confusion, Rupert Giles came from the back of the store with an armful of books stacked as high as his face. He nodded at Buffy, who immediately went to a bookshelf near the entrance and did a more or less convincing job of scanning the titles. Wesley approached Giles and put on as jovial a tone as he could muster. "Ripper, old boy, let me help you with those."

Lifting half the stack revealed Giles' genuine smile of delight. "Wesley, what a marvelous surprise. It's been much much too long."

"You know the life of a working man." Wesley felt a stab of guilt at playacting around someone he really thought of as a friend. Bugger policing in a small town, he thought, and wondered if Giles even recalled his profession. Most likely he did, but then, Giles sometimes seemed to live with his head in the clouds, and Wesley decided not to remind him right away. "Too many books, never enough time."

"Of course." Giles set his burden down on the counter, and Wesley put his beside them. "Now," Giles said, rubbing his hands together. "How is your charming American lady friend?"

"Sorry?" Wesley stammered, and almost blew his cover by looking at Buffy. She at least had the presence of mind to keep browsing, although he wished she would have noticed that the books she was looking at were in French. _Well, maybe she reads French,_ he thought, and then, _An American? Not bloody likely. _

Fortunately, Giles was leafing through one of the volumes on the table, and didn't notice the gesture at all. "The lady professor from Texas, who used to come in with you?" he said. "Fran, was it? I was just thinking of her, because we received some lovely illustrated volumes on the history of dance. That was her interest, was it not?"

"Fred," Wesley corrected. "And, yes, she likes ballet." He was unable to suppress a smile at the image it gave him of Winifred Burkle's graceful form twirling under a spotlight. "Dance and theoretical physics and forensic science. And nineteenth century children's literature. Quite a nimble mind Fred has." Now Buffy was definitely looking at him, and he thought, _Oh bugger, me and my mouth._ He wondered how much he would be able to play off as a performance. Then it also occurred to him that if Buffy ended up going out for drinks with Fred, it couldn't hurt for her to have heard this. Finally it occurred to him that he was a thirty-five year old man investigating a homicide and not, in fact, a thirteen-year old boy with a juvenile crush, and that he really really needed to, as Buffy would doubtless phrase it, get a life.

Giles brightened. "I have quite a number of volumes on all of those subjects, actually." Leaning across the counter, man to man, he said in a confidential tone. "If there is any occasion for which a gift might be in order."

Wesley felt simultaneously better and worse. Better because he realized that a bookseller's gestures of friendship to a regular customer – a customer with very low sales resistance, and a trust-fund padded income -- inevitably had ulterior motives of their own. Worse for much the same reason. "Perhaps not today. Perhaps not ever, actually," he sighed, now trying to mask his own earlier uncertainty as romantic disappointment. Which, when it came to Fred Burkle, was not particularly difficult to fake. Confidentially, and rather hoping Buffy couldn't hear, he said, "Today she told me I reminded her of her cousin Cory from Oklahoma."

"Oh," said Giles sympathetically, "Well, they sometimes marry cousins in Oklahoma, correct?"

"And in the line of Wyndam-Pryce," Wesley said dryly. "But somehow I don't think she views Cory as a dark mysterious stranger type." And then, hoping he had established a sufficient level of intimacy to encourage confidence without having to delve any deeper into his own affairs, Wesley turned to the books on the counter and ran his finger over the spines. Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, all the volumes. A nice leather-bound edition but nothing remarkable. "So have you seen any interesting collections come through here in the past few months?"

"Interesting?" Giles removed his glasses and started to rub them with a pocket handkerchief. "Interesting in what way?"

"Just. . .interesting. The sort of thing that you know it when you see it?"

Giles' eyebrows went up as he replaced his glasses. "Well, yes," he said. "We do get a bit of that sort of thing. I hadn't imagined it would be up your alley, but. . .perhaps for the lady. Or. . .not for a lady, we have that as well."

"No." Wesley shook his head. "I didn't mean pornography. At least. . ." he paused. "I suppose it could be pornography, but. . ." _Exactly when,_ he thought, _did I get so bad at the detective part of detective work?_

"This is an official inquiry, then," Giles said, stiffly. "I'm disappointed in you, Wesley. I thought we were friends. Why don't you just come out and ask me if I knew Ethan Rayne?"

"Did you?" Wesley prompted.

"Of course," Giles answered. "And I know who killed him."


	3. Strangers in a Strange Land

It took Buffy a while to notice that the books were in French. She didn't suppose this was a good sign of her surveillance skills. But she kept looking. As long as this Ripper guy didn't try to speak French to her, she thought she would be okay. And Wesley seemed to be keeping him occupied. She didn't get what he was up to at first. It just seemed like a friendly conversation, but other than having her suspicions about the sergeant and Dr. Burkle confirmed -- _a nimble mind?_, _cousin Cory from Oklahoma?_; oh, Wes had it bad, and it wasn't good. But then she saw that he was trying to draw the ironically-named Ripper into a conversation about his trade, to see if there might be anything to Harker's hints without raising his friend's suspicions unnecessarily. Then Ripper seemed to think Wesley was talking about porn, which was amusing. And then Buffy felt a pair of eyes on her, from the back of the store.

She replaced the volume on the shelf -- _Les Fleurs du Mal_. Bad Flowers? – and tried to catch Wesley's eye, but he and Ripper were still going on about the porn. It certainly didn't have anything to do with the case they were supposed to be working. So she wandered to the back of the store, where a dark-haired boy huddled against the wall. She glanced at the shelves as she made her way back. Was there a children's collection back there? How long had that kid been there without making a sound? And why exactly was he looking at her with such interest?

A few feet from him, she stopped and looked at the shelf. Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury. So this was science fiction. The kind of thing her friend Xander used to haul around in high school, and the kid. . .well, at closer glance, he was older than he had appeared to be. A teenager. Maybe even older, maybe Buffy's age. But he was small, with dark intense eyes that were fixed on her. "Hi," she said. "I didn't even hear you in here. Are these the books you like?"

"Some of them." He held up a paperback. "This is the best one. I've read it maybe twenty times." She saw the cover, Robert Heinlein, _Stranger in a Strange Land_. That was one Xander had read, too, and Buffy tried to remember what he had said about it, why it had stuck in her mind. Oh yeah. _Heinlein was the most breast-fixated author in history. Not that this is a bad thing, you understand, only an observation._ Somehow that didn't seem like the way to start a conversation. But then there was his accent. "That describes us a little, doesn't it?" she said. "You're from America too?"

He shook his head, then paused. "Well, originally from California. But we moved when I was a kid. So mostly Toronto."

"And you came here?" she prompted. "With your family?"

"A friend," he said. "I met a friend. I don't like your questions. I don't think you know French."

"_Je parle-vous français_," she objected, hoping he wouldn't require any further evidence of the fact.

"You just said 'I you speak French,'" the kid answered.

"Well, I had a science teacher named Miss French once," she said, and went with a pleasing smile that she hoped would cover a multitude of sins.

"You came in with that policeman," said the boy. "I know you're lying, I just don't know why."

"Oh," said Buffy, "I – wow, he did not tell me he was a policeman." She shook her head. "The thing is," she leaned closer to the boy. "He's married. And, I mean, we're not doing anything wrong. But you know how it is. Small town."

"I know who he is," said the kid. "He's not married. His dad is famous."

"Wow," she shook her head. "He's not married and he told me he was. The bastard."

"That doesn't even make any sense. Besides, you're kind of famous too. You were in the paper." He scowled. "I'm not telling Mr. Giles or anything but don't lie to me. I don't like it when people lie."

"Me neither," Buffy admitted. "I'm probably in the wrong line of work, do you think?"

He gave her a faint smile, and then she heard the bell jingling at the front door, and Wesley saying, loudly, "Maybe I'll be back for those dance books, then?"

"I'll keep an eye out," answered Ripper. (Was this Mr. Giles? Buffy wondered)

"I think that's your cue," said the boy.

Buffy smiled at him, then edged back to the French poetry. At the front, Ripper Giles approached her with a beaming smile. "_Puis-je vous aider, mademoiselle_?"

Buffy's eyes widened and she said, "_Non! Non non non non_!" She pointed at her watch, then at the door. "_Excusez-moi, s'il-vous-plait._" And then she dashed out, looking for Wesley.

*

As Giles watched her leave, the boy emerged from the back. "Oh," said Giles. "Jonathon. Good God, you frightened me." He frowned. "Was that one of your friends? From your, um, chatting rooms?"

The boy shrugged. "Strange girl. She tried to talk to me. I don't think she spoke any English though."

"Yes," said Giles. "Well, your lunch break is almost over, don't you think?"

"I'll get back in the back," Jonathon Levenson agreed.

Giles looked after the girl and shook his head. "Those really were some remarkable trousers."

*

Wesley scowled when Buffy came out of the store. "I lost sight of you for a bit there. Did you manage to hear --?"

"Man, I totally don't think he believed I was French."

"Yes." Wesley's mouth twitched. "That was perhaps more undercover than strictly necessary. I just thought it might be preferable not to come on with the full policeman's assault. And have an extra pair of ears." He frowned and repeated. "How much did you hear?"

"Up to the part where he thought you were trying to buy porn for Dr. Burkle. Which, you know. . .direct approach is not always bad. At least she wouldn't mix you up with cousin Cory again."

"Oh God," Wesley sighed. "I suppose that's a very bad sign?"

"Speaking for all women everywhere, as I am so often called upon to do?" She shrugged. "I'm not gonna lie, it's not a check in the 'harbors a secret crush on you' column. But maybe she doesn't know how you feel."

"Everybody else seems to. Including people I've just met, people I barely know, and, oh yes, mortal enemies."

"So maybe she does know, and she's just avoiding the issue. It's kind of like when my friend Xander wanted to ask me to Spring Fling, but our friend Willow. . ." She saw the pained look on his face. "Not really with the helping, am I?"

Wesley shook his head. "On the more pleasant subject of mortal enemies? I'm afraid mine has led us astray. So it doesn't matter what you heard, or whether Rupert Giles thinks you're French. Or any of it. Giles knew Ethan Rayne as an occasional customer, nothing more. Rayne didn't buy or sell anything unusual in the months before his death. In fact, his collection was mostly old American Westerns, detective novels, and other pulps. Certainly nothing worth killing for."

"So that's it?" Buffy blinked. "Can we just talk more about your love life, then?"

"Oh, we should be so lucky." He made a face. "Better idea. Let's get something to eat, then take you back to the station, and finish your paperwork. I'll get you a tour of the facilities. Maybe Fred can show you around forensics. And you can spend the rest of the day reading up on the files. Then you can take off at five. . .maybe a little before, and, well, amuse yourself."

"Clothes shopping?" she suggested.

"May I once again emphasize the advisability of khaki?"

*

If Buffy's first day was all about paperwork, the rest of the week was about drowning in documents. Liam had warned her that most of a detective's routine consisted of filling out forms and going through files. And here, it seemed like a detective constable's job was more or less to do what her sergeant told her to. So Wesley gave her the Rayne file, and several others, and told her to look through them.

"For what?" she asked.

"Familiarize yourself with the way we do things. And bring your own experience to the table. As the superintendent says. Fresh eyes." Then he left her to do it, and went off to do. . .well, she wasn't exactly sure what. Something seemed a little off about the whole thing. She certainly wouldn't have expected the Wesley Wyndam-Pryce that she met on the first day to start quoting Quentin Travers' instructions. She had hoped that there would be more opportunities for field interviews, and soon. But the only conclusion she could reach was that he had decided she was a bad risk. She hadn't helped him out on the visit to Giles' store, and he had decided to cut his losses and do whatever he would usually do without letting Buffy get too much in the way. He was perfectly civil to her, taking her to lunch at the pub most days, and letting her tease him about his crush on Fred Burkle without getting too bent out of shape. It was simply clear that he didn't take her seriously as a police officer, and she would have to prove him wrong.

So she determined to tackle the case files with the benefit of fresh eyes. But once she started thinking "fresh eyes" it reminded her of "fresh blood." Which raised the spectre of William Harker and his mocking looks. _Forget about him,_ she thought, but of course, there was no way for that to happen. She was looking at his name on every page of every case file. Some of them were, as Wesley had predicted, uncharted country. An initial description of the crime, reports from forensics and the evidence lab, and precious little else. Others had pages of notes, in a hand that seemed sloppy at first, but, once she got used to its few quirks, revealed a strikingly methodical mind. After going through a few of these, she began to have a feel for Harker's thought processes. He liked charts, and arrows, and lists of questions that seemed to lead to other questions. Wesley's "Chernobyl" description did not seem quite fair after all.

The odd thing was that Buffy could find no rhyme or reason to the cases that got a long paper trail and the ones that didn't. Wesley had spoken of cases that fed into Harker's "pet obsessions," but what in the world could unite an armed robbery gone wrong with an old-age pensioner smothered for her inheritance with a stabbing in a bar fight? Stranger still, the Rayne case did not seem to be among those with a significant paper trail. Spike had said that he did a lot of work on the case, but there was nothing to the file besides the bare minimum of details: Lifelong Yorkshire resident Ethan Rayne bludgeoned to death in his own living room, weapon unknown, no signs of forced entry, nothing missing. Mention of a few family members and their confirmed whereabouts on the night of the killing. Nothing about Rupert Giles, nothing about books. Curiouser and curiouser. Did that mean Harker had followed up on the case after he left the force? Or that he really had sent them on a wild goose chase, and if so, why?

This all led back to the issue of why he had left the force in the first place. She quickly gave up on trying to get information from her colleagues. Wesley just scowled and made another of his cryptic remarks. Anyone else seemed to get uncomfortable fast, and launched into a vaguely defensive statement that they were sure he "hadn't done any of those things," while deflecting Buffy's attempts to find out what those things had been. Travers had said not to believe what she read in the papers, but she certainly had no idea where else she was supposed to learn about it. So her days of wading through files led to nights of Internet searches, which didn't leave her any more comfortable with the situation, or much more enlightened about it.

The papers first mentioned William Harker as a successful and decorated officer, involved in several major drug busts, and later in some high-profile homicide investigations. None other than Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was quoted as saying that Harker was, "A little unconventional, but gets the job done." Then about a year before, the paper started to run editorials asking questions about the investigation into the murder of a local artist named – could this be right? – Drusilla Moon. Harker seemed to have known the victim, and he had not been officially attached to the case. No, the sergeant there was – big surprise – Pryce. However, the paper hinted that Harker had been involved in manufacturing and planting evidence against a man named Lindsey McDonald. McDonald was an American attorney, working out of the local office of an international conglomerate called Wolfram &amp; Hart. He and several of his colleagues at the firm had accused Harker of brutality, after which stories about Harker's violent temper and disregard of procedure seemed to come out of the woodwork. The local newspaper dubbed him "William the Bloody," and the story had been picked up as far away as Manchester and even London. Harker was suspended

And then the story went away. The lawsuit never materialized, McDonald never came to trial. It was as though the whole thing had never happened. Weird. Even weirder, Buffy could find no evidence that Lindsey McDonald had ever existed. She looked up Wolfram &amp; Hart, which had business concerns all over northern England, but she found no mention of anyone by that name. It occurred to her to call the firm's office and ask for him, at least see if she got a reaction. But when an over-polite secretary with an American accent answered the phone, Buffy lost her nerve and hung up. She didn't know what it was about, but that place gave her a wiggins.

So she went back to Harker's files, trying once again to make heads or tails of them. The situation was that much trickier because the constable who had worked under Harker for the two years previous to his resignation was on his honeymoon in Majorca. On Friday afternoon of the first week, DC Gurt finally gave a call in response to Buffy's repeated messages. He didn't exactly sound enthused, but at least he let her explain herself before he started to laugh. "Listen, love. Just because my name is down as working those cases with Harker, doesn't mean I knew a damn thing about what he was up to. You think Wyndsley plays his cards close to the chest?" Gurt whistled. "Nobody had a bloody clue what Harker was doing. And as long as it was getting results and not getting the wrong names in the paper, no one complained."

"Well," Buffy began, "I've been looking through the files. . ."

"The files? Harker's files. Oh, that's a good one. Just a moment, love." He then did a poor job of covering the mouthpiece as he yelled, "This is a grand one, honey! I've got the new American bird on the phone, and she's been looking at Spike Harker's files!" Coming back on line, he said, "Sorry, hope this hasn't take up too much of your time. Those files aren't real."

"What?"

"I'm sorry nobody told you. I'm sure Wyndsley or the superintendent should have done. Nothing that meant anything to Harker went in any file. I hope you haven't spent too much time with those."

It was Friday evening, and Buffy had the office almost to herself, but still, somebody would probably have noticed if she had started throwing things, then and there. So she just packed every single one of the useless files into a box, took the box into the office that Wesley had already vacated, and dumped them all over his immaculate desk and into his chair. Then she went to the parking lot and drove her bike very very fast back to her flat, where she started throwing things. And this was the night she was supposed to meet Fred Burkle for a drink. Well, Buffy would have a thing or two to say to her about Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and it would just serve him right for wasting her time.


	4. American Woman, Stay Away From Me

"The first time is always nerve-wracking," said Wesley with an encouraging smile. "It has taken me quite a few years to develop my current level of skill. You shouldn't expect the thing to feel natural in your hand right away. That comes with time. Time and a lot of practice."

Fred Burkle gave him her sweetest smile, which turned out to be very very sweet. "You sure know how to put a girl at ease. How long have you been into this?"

"Since I was thirteen or fourteen, at least. I suppose I picked it up from my father. In this country, it's considered a rather strange enthusiasm. For club members only, and they're very choosy about who gets through the door. That's why it took me so long to bring you here." He eyed her curiously. "Are you quite sure you're ready? The equipment and everything?"

She shrugged. "Now or never." Then she put on her earplugs, and he put on his, and Fred raised her arm, looked down the sight of the pistol, and pumped six shots straight into the center of the target.

Wesley felt his jaw drop, and then he had to shift his legs to avoid the onset of another physical reaction. "Good God," he said, pulling off the headset so that he could hear. "You're a natural." Then, as she removed her headgear and grinned sheepishly, he said. "No, you're not a natural, you're a ringer. You're from Texas, you've been target shooting since you were a babe-in-arms, and now I feel like a complete ass."

"It's all right." She patted his shoulder. "I could have said something before. But you're so cute when you're pompous." Smiling, she stopped to reload the gun. _Pompous?_ thought Wesley, and then immediately, _Cute?_

For the next thirty minutes, they took turns at a friendly competition, which was pretty close to a draw. She was damn good, but then, he had been recommended to her as the department's resident gun nut for a reason. Marksmanship wasn't a skill at any particular premium in a police force where sidearms were a rarity. Wesley was very much in favor of the firearms laws, but he didn't see that gun crime bore any great relationship to well-regulated sport shooting. Spending Friday evening at the target range was just like a high powered game of darts.

Wesley was happy to share his enthusiasm with anyone else who played by the rules. But discovering he shared it with Fred made him weak in the knees. Every time he watched her reload the gun, he thought about how amazing it would feel just to grab her and push her against the wall of their booth, and, well, just look at those lips, he bet she gave amazing blow jobs, he had never been with an American girl but he heard that they gave a lot of head and they expected to get it, too, and that was something he could definitely deal with, he could be on any end of her, any way, any time, and could she still be holding that gun while they did it because that was hot and good God was he the sickest fuck who ever breathed, of course not, some of the things he had seen on the job, why did he persist in believing that his own stupid schoolboyish lusts had any significance in the range of sins that human beings were capable of? And suddenly he realized it was almost eight o'clock, and Fred needed to clear out of here.

He took off the headgear again, signaled for Fred to remove hers, and said, "Aren't you supposed to be meeting Buffy in a few minutes?" He wondered if the constable could still be counted on to put in a good word for him, after he had buried her in paperwork for a week. But he fought the stab of apprehension and guilt. Buffy didn't know what was going on, that was the whole point. And that was why he was running things this way. The fewer of his people involved, the better, and praise God maybe the whole bloody mess would be over soon. Then if that happened, he swore to himself, he would ask Fred on a real date, or buy her some eighteenth-century erotica from Giles's shop, or just grab her and kiss her like both their lives depended on it, or whatever the hell it took. And most likely he would end up looking a complete ass, but he would be the ass who brought down Wolfram &amp; Hart, and just tonight she had told him he was cute, even if the way she said it was only three words away from "pompous."

Fred tied her unruly hair into a ponytail as she smiled at him. "I'm going right now. But listen. " She paused, and swallowed, tilted her head and focused her brown eyes on him intensely. "You and I need to have a real talk. I've been putting this off for way too long, but there are some things you ought to understand."

"Oh," Wesley said, and the weakness in his knees this time was not such a happy thing. "Yes of course. Is this something I'll be happy to hear?"

"I don't know." She looked down. "I'm not really sure how you're going to feel." This was enough for Wesley, who could not imagine such a statement applying to any sentiment that belonged even in the same general category as, "I'd like us both to be naked now, with guns."

"Well then," he said quietly. "Can it wait? This has been a bugger of a week, and I am not entirely sure of what I am prepared to deal with right now." A long look passed between them and with it, he thought, an understanding.

"All right," she said. "Another time."

"Right," he answered. "You and Buffy have fun. Drink some watery beer and eat something processed, in honor of the mother country."

She stuck her tongue out, then headed for the door. He reloaded, and turned to the target. _Jesus, Pryce, could you be any more chickenshit?_ He doubted very much that the conversation Fred had alluded to would ever occur. They both understood how things stood. He tried to decide whether it was better this way. He put every round right through the bullseye, and he wondered why this didn't make him feel the least bit better.

And then she was beside him. Long legs and heels.

"Nice shot," she observed. "Nothing like a gun for healthy channeling of your inner rage."

"American women," he said. "Everywhere I turn these days. I feel so blessed."

"She's not worth it, you know. Those flirty, girly types are always frigid, as you'll find out one day. Assuming you even really want to fuck a titless wonder like that in the first place."

"I understood this was to be a professional conversation." Raising the gun and lining the sight up with the target, he said, "Well, I suppose it depends on your profession. So if you are, in fact, the ten-quid whore that those shoes suggest, then your opening was quite appropriate, and I apologize."

"I understand you've been asking questions about my organization."

"Yes, Miss Morgan, and I understand that each of us has something that the other one wants."

"Please, Wes," she said, "No formality needed. You can call me Lilah."

*  
Spike couldn't believe his luck. He had run out of work to do for paying clients, leads to follow up on his own, and so he had come to the Bronze Harp in search of random lowlifes to work over, just for the hell of it. But his heart wasn't really into bloodsports right now, and besides, his hand still hurt like hell from last night. _They say never hit a man with a closed fist,_ he thought, rubbing his swollen knuckle _but it is, on occasion, hilarious._ Of course, if anyone asked, the other guy had started it. If there was one skill Spike Harker had cultivated in a decade as one of Her Majesty's Finest, it was getting the other guy to start it.

But tonight he was bored with all that, so bored he even found himself getting nostalgic for his days of filling out fake paperwork. He liked to think of his meticulously bogus reports as a form of artistic expression, sometimes even fancied that Drusilla would have approved. He could hear her voice now: "Truth resides in the act of creation, and the boldest lie, truly expressed, locates itself in the darkest truth. It is only through the process of visualizing the location that we actualize the knowledge. . ." At about which point, he would break in to say, "So when you're painting burning baby goldfish flying at your eyeballs, it's like they're more real than the burning flying goldfish that aren't actually there." She would smack him, in play but it would really hurt, and he would grab her hand and pull her against him and remind her that it was her fault for spewing that academic mumbo-jumbo at a bloke who had to work for a living, but he wouldn't mind at all of she would keep making the pictures, because those were bloody cool, and she would pronounce him a Philistine and push him back on the bed and. . .

. . .and this was the part of tonight where he got lucky, because before his mind could work past the Drusilla who was warm and alive and alluringly barking crazy, to the Drusilla who lived in crime scene photos and bags of evidence and words like "the decedent," "the victim," "the body," he saw the blonde girl sitting at the bar. She gave him something else to think about; anything else would do. She might be a source of information. And, barring that, he could think of a lot of other uses for her. Yes, he could think of those.

"How goes it, fresh blood?" Slipping onto a stool beside her, he signaled the bartender. "Buy you a drink?"

Buffy Summers stared back, and it turned out that those green eyes could get cold. They gave Spike a nice little shiver. "It goes fine, mental defective," she answered. "Why are you talking to me, like we're some kind of talking buddies?"

The bartender swooped down and put a pint of India Pale Ale in front of each of them. "Good question, Angel cakes," he said to Buffy. "But for some reason you girls always succumb to the Blondie Bear, so my advice is, don't fight it. The drinking part, I mean."

"Thanks, Lorne," Buffy sighed, then called after him, "You're sure you haven't seen Fred in here tonight?"

"Not a shimmer," Lorne answered.

Her eyes traveled to the clock behind the bar, and Spike leaned closer. "Shall I compare thee to a Summers' day? Thou art more lovely, and more stood up. Who's this Fred bloke, Summers'- day? I'll have to kick his arse." _More like buy him a drink._. Some stupid git had left this bird alone in a pub on a Saturday night, a bird Spike really thought he could fancy. More than he had liked a girl in a long time, maybe since. . .but no, that was heresy. He wouldn't even allow the thought. _She's a shaggable piece, Will Harker, but don't start imagining more than that. For her sake or yours._

"Fred as in Doctor Burkle Fred," Buffy clarified. "The one you called Labcoat Barbie?"

"What?" Spike cried, annoyed at himself. So much for that little scenario. "Somebody told me all American lady-cops swung that way, but I didn't think you --"

She leveled a gaze at him. "It's not a date, moron. I just thought we could talk, have a little ex-pat fun. Plus I can feel things out, maybe lay some groundwork for Sergeant. . . for Wesley."

Spike groaned. "Don't."

"Don't what? He obviously likes her. She seems to like him. And besides, maybe he would be a little less, well, uptight? If he was, you know -- getting some."

"Don't!" Spike repeated. "Don't pity him. Old Wyndsley doesn't really want that girl. Oh, he _thinks_ he does, but if he actually got his hands on her, his brain would explode. Not to mention, other parts. The boy needs his Venus de Milo exactly where she is. On a pedestal. He'll admire her from afar, and let all that beautiful frustration build up until he can't take it. Then he'll find the exactly wrong kind of girl to shag, and when that crashes and burns, he'll drink too much Scotch and get weepy about how he's not capable of love."

Buffy stared. "Wow," she said, "You really do think you know Wesley."

"Know him?" Spike repeated. "I used to _be_ him."

"You?" Buffy repeated, disbelieving. "Now _that_ is a story I need to hear."

"In good time. But it'll cost you." Leaning close, Spike said, "Eventually, everything does."

Buffy moved back to allow some distance between them. "OK," she admitted, "I'm not very happy with the sergeant right now, and I wasn't even sure if I should say something nasty about him to Fred, but. . . the truth is, he's not the one I should be pissed off at. It's you!"

Spike spread his hands in his best gesture of innocence, which was easier than usual because for once, he genuinely didn't know what he had done. "The fuck did I do? Except share information I was not under the slightest damn obligation to share."

"Right," Buffy said, "And if any of that information had actually been in your _case files_, I might not have wasted the past week trying to decipher them."

"Oh," Spike said, "The files." He let that hang there for a moment because, for once, he could not muster a good defense. _Might not be the questions that are screwing with you, Harker_, he thought. _Might be her that's doing the asking._ He tried a smile, and a head tilt, because these usually helped him to get somewhere. "Think of it as an art form."

"Falsifying evidence?" she asked.

"Oh, who ever found anything useful in a case file, anyway? It's about working the scene, the witnesses, going over old ground with a fresh eye. And I gave you that tip on Ripper Giles. I didn't have to do that."

"That tip went nowhere," Buffy said. "Giles told Wesley he didn't know a thing."

"Told him _what_?" Spike demanded. "Well, he was lying."

"Everybody lies. First rule in the handbook of practical homicide." Buffy shrugged. "I guess I could tell Wesley to try him again, but he seemed convinced."

Spike shook his head, the gears shifting. "This doesn't make any damn sense. Truth or lie, I don't know, but when I talked to Giles, he was dying to tell this story. Any detective worth his salt would have got it out of him in about five minutes. Wyndsley's a poncey bugger, but he used to be a decent investigator. I guess without my influence to keep him on his toes. . ."

"No," Buffy said, quietly, and Spike saw her fingers tighten around the glass. "Everybody does lie. Including cops. Giles didn't lie to Wesley, Spike. Wesley lied to me."

"Get your coat, Summers-day." Spike said, hopping off the barstool. "Let's pay a little visit to my friend the Ripper."


	5. Scent of a Woman

Wesley thought that Lilah Morgan smelled like a French prostitute.

He might have told her so, and turned it into an insult, except that, unfortunately, this was not a simile. He had never been any good at untangling the mystery of female scents, had never managed to buy the right fragrance for any girlfriend, not even for his mother, not even by accident. Yet now as he stood next to Lilah, he recognized, although fifteen years removed, the perfume of the redhead who gave him his first blowjob, in a stairwell of a tourist hotel in St. Tropez.

Lilah raised her target pistol and squeezed off several rounds. Then she moved toward Wesley, and lifted his earpiece. "Nice choice of meeting place." She spoke so close that he could feel a rush of air from her s-sounds. "Lots of noise interference in case either of us is inclined to get surveillance-happy."

He wondered what perfume was made from, some mix of spice and rotten vegetable matter, maybe, with generous doses of alcohol. _Celine_, he remembered. That was her name. New Year's, 1989, Wesley had come to France on holiday with his flatmates from Oxford, ended up in a fight with Nigel and Colin over who was the biggest ponce, lost – or, depending on your point of view, won – the fight pretty resoundingly, and picked up the girl as if that would prove something except that he knew how to wave his father's money around. At the time, those had seemed to be the most awkward and humiliating eleven or twelve minutes of his life -- and that was timing the whole transaction, not just the sex -- although, from a distance, the memory was not entirely unpleasant.

Still, it was an odd thing to be thinking about now. Lilah's perfume was only a coincidence, but it made the already tense conversation that much more unsettling. Of course, it had to be a coincidence – didn't it? _Oh, stop it. You're getting as paranoid as Harker. Or her_.

"It doesn't matter if you do manage to record this conversation," Lilah continued. "My firm has nothing to hide."

"Of course not. Wolfram and Hart is as pure as the driven snow." Wesley pressed the button that sent the used targets toward them on a clothesline, to let them examine the holes they had made, and compare their aim. Morgan was pretty good, he noted, but not as good as Fred.

"Pure as the driven snow. I never knew what that meant," Lilah frowned at the target sheet in which she had made some pretty convincing holes. "What's driving the snow? And why would that make it pure?"

"The wind," Wesley answered, automatically. "The wind drives it, and it's pure because it hasn't hit the ground, and is this the conversation that we are actually having?" _Here I am,_ he thought, _a private audience with a major player at Wolfram &amp; Hart, talking about the weather._ He didn't know what was wrong with him. Maybe her perfume.

"Let's start with what you have that I want, then."

"Naturally," Wes said dryly.

"Ease up, Wild Bill. I'm the one doing you a favor by being here. This is your job."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to bill someone for your time."

"It's the American way," she acknowledged, then tilted back on her heels and frowned at him. "This _is_ part of your job, right? It's only Spike the Wonder Dog who engages in extracurricular investigation."

"Are we really here to talk about Spike?" he snapped, then couldn't believe she had actually gotten him to say the stupid name.

"Yes," she said, "Because William Harker's files – his real files – are what I want."

Wesley almost choked. "Are you out of your mind? You're either proposing a bribe or blackmail. I could arrest you just for suggesting such a thing."

Lilah's lip curled, as if she were smiling at a private joke. Then she crossed her wrists and held them in front of her. "Not too tight with the handcuffs, please, sergeant. Unless that's what you want. If so, you might just end up turning me on."


	6. Connections

Buffy braced herself against the door of the sports car, as Spike Harker took yet another hairpin corner – not something the Yorkshire roads seemed designed for. "If you're not going to tell me anything," she yelled over the noise of his engine, "How can we work this case?"

"We? Let's get one thing straight. This case is my case, and what I'm investigating is, what the bloody hell does your sergeant Wyndsley-Pryce think he's playing at?"

"So what do you want with me?" Buffy demanded. She thought this was at least as good of a question as the one she wanted to ask herself: _Why?_ Why the hell would she, one of the LAPD's finest, and an acting Detective Constable in Yorkshire's CID, in the course of trying to make a positive impression on her superiors, get in the car with a disgraced former detective, who had possible psychological problems and definite swinish tendencies. Oh yes, because she had just discovered that her own sergeant had lied to her about a case they were supposed to be investigating together, and she had temporarily decided that this pissed her off even more than Spike did. Of course, that was before she found out about his driving.

"I need to figure out exactly what Ripper Giles told Pryce," Spike answered, "And what Pryce is doing with that information. You help me with that, maybe you find something out that impresses your bosses and shows old Wyndsley up."

"How can I help you," Buffy repeated, "When I don't know anything?"

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Bloody hell, woman! There must be something you're good for. Is there? Can you back me up with some of your judo?"

"I'll need to use judo on that Giles guy? Spike, he looks like a librarian." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You just wanted to get me in this car, didn't you? You don't want my help on this case." She got a sick feeling in her stomach. "Oh my God, is this a date?"

"A date?" he cried, then stopped and looked curiously at her. "How'd you feel if it was?"

"Spike!" she said. "Focus! I understand why I'm angry at Wesley for investigating this behind my back. But why do you care?"

"Because, it shows that he does. That he's taking me seriously, and he sees the connections." He shook his head. "Seven years we worked together in CID. Everybody else just saw bodies. Isolated cases. But I started to see the connections. I didn't even want to see them, at first. Let me tell you, the world's a helluva cozier place when you don't."

"Connections to what?" Buffy was starting to wonder if he she really had gotten into the car with a lunatic.

"Oh, come on, fresh blood. You should have it by now. Dog, sheep, deer?"  
"Wolfram and Hart." She looked at him. "That's it. It's about the law firm."

Spike let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Law firm. It's not a bloody law firm, it's a front."

"For what? The Mafia?"

"You may as well ask what it isn't a front for."

"The IRA? The PLO? The PTA? Those guys in Brazil who wanted to clone Hitler? Pod people from the planet Mars?"

"If bad stuff goes down, anytime anywhere, Wolfram and Hart has a finger in the pie."

"That is a stunningly sweeping and, if I may say, highly paranoid theory."

"I'm not saying they do it all. But they know about it. Drug trafficking. Prostitution. Illegal gambling. Murder for hire. Anything."

"So we're talking Evil, Incorporated?"

They were approaching the block of Giles' bookshop, and Spike ripped through a traffic light, somehow managing to drive and gesture at her with both hands. "You make it sound like a joke," he said. "And that's what they count on. It sounds so ridiculous, it has to be a bloody X-file. That's what kept Wes playing my Agent Scully for seven years."

"Wes," Buffy repeated, and hearing that name for the first time, instead of "Wyndsley" or a contemptuous 'Pryce' put something in focus for her, something she should have understood earlier. "The two of you were friends."

"Friends," Spike snorted. Then, stopping the car in front of Giles' store, he turned to look at her. "Friends," he repeated. "Brothers in bloody arms. Literally, sometimes. The bloody," he said hastily, "not the arms. Our first month on the job, we both got banged up chasing some baddies in a liquor store heist. Had a few drinks over our wounds. Decided everybody else in the department was a waste of oxygen and we were young and brave and brilliant and we were going to rule the world. Or at least," he laughed, "The Yorkshire CID part of it."

Buffy frowned. "What happened?"

"What happens to everybody who's young and brave and brilliant, love? Don't you watch _Behind the Music_? I burned out, he sold out. Only two ways to go, besides dying young. And neither of us got to do that, and we're too old for it now. No," he laughed. "Somebody else had that stroke of luck. Happens it was a girl. Happens I loved her. They get at you through the people you love, that's what they do. This girl she ended up taking a nasty fall from a third story window."

"Drusilla Moon," said Buffy. "And you thought that lawyer, Lindsey McDonald, was responsible."

"No," Spike said, "All right, yes, I thought, but I was wrong. Wesley caught the case and he wanted to treat it as a domestic. I made the same mistake. So blind with rage, so focused on Lindsey, that I didn't see until late it was part of the pattern. Up until then I was finding the connections, but I couldn't see what was underneath it. I couldn't see what the connections connected to. Then with Lindsey, it was looking me right in the face. But we didn't see it until we went looking for him, and he was gone. The firm swallowed him up, because he wasn't the bad guy. He wasn't a good guy, mind you, and I don't lose a moment's sleep over his fate. Oh, Dru died because of Lindsey, but he didn't kill her. They killed her to hurt Lindsey. Because he was trying to get out."

Buffy's head was starting to hurt, and she brought a hand to her temple. She tried to focus on just one small part of what he had said that didn't make any sense. "You said domestic. How could it be a domestic, and McDonald be the suspect, if she was your girlfriend?"

Spike shut his eyes, and turned his head. He spoke through tight lips. "I said I loved her, Buffy, I didn't say she was _my_ girlfriend. Turns out a hotshot young American lawyer has more to offer than even the most promising young sergeant in Yorkshire. Imagine that." He looked up. "Lindsey was the boyfriend, Summers' Day. I was what we like to call the bit of rough."

"So no wonder people wouldn't listen to your theories on the case. They thought you were a jealous rival."

He smiled and shook his head. "Oh, I was a jealous rival. And Wesley listened, and then he wished he hadn't."

"I don't understand. He wasn't accused of any wrongdoing in that case."

"No, he wasn't. Because he didn't do wrong." Spike gave a bitter laugh. "All he did was share some information with a concerned and bereft colleague, that seemed to point the finger at a certain suspect. And then that suspect disappeared off the face of the earth. And that is why Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and William "Spike" Harker are no longer blood brothers in arms."

Buffy frowned. "So he never found out what happened to Mc – to Lindsey?"

"Now really, Fresh Blood, you should have it sorted by now. Wesley is not trying to find out what happened to Lindsey. Wesley does not want to know what happened to Lindsey."

"Why not?" she asked. Because form seemed to require it, not because she wanted to hear the next words.

"Because," Spike said, "He thinks that I do."


	7. Point-Counterpoint

"Are you gonna come help me roust the Ripper, or not?"

Buffy gathered her coat around her and scrambled out of the car. He was walking toward the bookshop now, without looking back. She hurried to catch up with him, grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "You can't just leave it like that. You're telling me Wesley thinks you killed Lindsey McDonald? As revenge for him killing Drusilla?"

"I just told you," Spike sighed, shaking off her grip. "Lindsey didn't kill Dru. So there's no reason I would. . ."

"But Wesley thinks you did."

"Yes. At least. . ." He rolled back his head and groaned. "I think so."

"And he. . ." Her mind reeled. "He thinks you're a killer, and he let me get in a car with you?"

"Let you?" Spike barked. ""Yes, this is really all about you, in't it? Looks from here like it's bleeding hard to keep you from doing anything comes into your head. I rather had the impression Wes had warned you off me."

"Well. . . Yeah, but. Not in a 'I think he's a murderer' kind of way."

Spike sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, Summers' Day, I assure you that your sergeant is quite the white knight where women are concerned. If he thought I presented any danger to _you_, I've no doubt he'd kill me himself. Or," he laughed. "Try. No, Fresh Blood, you haven't been in homicide long, so I'll forgive the _naivete_. But keep this in mind from here on out. People who rape or steal cars or get in barfights, sometimes they just do that because it's what they do. People who kill – on purpose, I mean. Putting aside the real nutters -- which, for the record, I am not. People who kill, kill for a reason. And if that reason ain't there, even the little virgin daughters are safe. From getting killed, at least. Your buddy Wes thinks I'm a vengeance killer, a man on a mission -- Lee Marvin in _Point Blank_ or some other garbage he saw on the late late movie while he was spending a sleepless night plucking daisies with Dr. Burkle's name on the petals. That doesn't give him any reason to think I would harm you. Almost the opposite, in fact." With a hollow laugh, he continued. "Makes me into a bit of a knight, myself, in his eyes. Not so much with the white, maybe, but nobody's perfect. And I think, deep down? Gray's more his color."

"But he's wrong about you?" Buffy pressed. "Because I like a little charcoal heather in my wardrobe as much as the next girl. But that doesn't necessarily mean I'm down with _killing people_."

"You know, pet, I'm not entirely sure he is wrong about me. If I were face-to-face with Dru's killer in a Dirty Harry type situation, if I had a pretty good chance of not getting caught, I can't speak for what I'd do. I follow my blood, Summers, and that doesn't necessarily flow in the direction of my brain. But McDonald wasn't the guy. And before I could get to him to find out who the guy was, someone else had wiped up all traces there ever _was_ a Lindsey McDonald."

Buffy ran over the story in her brain, poking it for holes. And there were plenty, but the problem was that she had no way to know what went in them. "So why don't you just tell Wesley what you told me?"

"You tell me. Supposing I did McDonald, and I ran the body through a woodchipper or dumped him in a sinkhole out of the moor, and I somehow found a way to make it look like he never existed. What the bloody hell am I gonna say? 'Yes, he was guilty, and I'm glad he's dead'? No. And if I go to Wes and say, 'I know I was ready to bash Lindsey Mac's skull in last week, but now I changed my mind, I think his own law firm set him up to keep him from blowing the whistle on their status as Evil Incorporated'. Why should he believe that? _I_ sure as hell wouldn't believe that."

"So why should I believe it?"

He looked down and a smile played on his face for a moment. "Thing is, pet, you shouldn't. So the question is, 'Why _do_ you?'"

"I. . .I. . .Well, why would you be taking me with you, and telling me all this?"

"Oh, I can think of plenty of explanations for that, and so can you. Some of 'em, I'm trying to shag you. Others, you end up in a woodchipper before the night's out. But you _do_ believe me."

Buffy locked eyes with him, and let a moment pass, and she realized with perfect clarity, against all the dictates of logic and common sense, and all her experience of the Byzantine lies and mind games floating around them in the Yorkshire air, that she did believe him. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I do. Turns out my blood doesn't run in the direction of my brain, either. Now. . ." She nodded toward the shop door. "Let's go roust a Ripper."

*  
Wesley stared at Lilah, who stood in front of him with her hands crossed. Her words echoed in his ears, underneath the blasting noise of the shooting range around them. _Not too tight with the handcuffs, please, sergeant. . .You might just end up turning me on._ Now how wrong was it that the notion gave him a little frisson of excitement? He'd had girlfriends who wanted to play with the cuffs before, and he generally found it tiresome. Not that he'd said no to the sex, but playing to someone's copper-fetish wasn't such a transgressive thrill when slapping on the bracelets was part of your job. Now, he'd been on the other end of it a few times, and that could be hot, and he wondered if Fred would be into it, before he got a chance to remind himself that whatever Fred was into seemed to be a moot point as far as he was concerned, but good God, putting those cuffs on Lilah, pushing against her and getting that self-satisfied smirk off her face, that was a thought, only, no, that was a bloody joke. The smirk wasn't going anywhere, because his lame fantasies were just playing into exactly what she wanted.

"You're insane," he told her.

"Insane?" Her face went into a pouty frown. "Couldn't you at least go with 'daft,' or 'barking mad,' or 'starkers'? When the senior partners posted me to this godforsaken corner of the empire, they at least promised me an authentic British linguistic experience."

"See, I think 'insane' about covers it."

"All right, then." She shrugged, picked up her target pistol again, and drilled three shots into the bullseye. She lowered the gun, and turned to him. "Would you be willing to testify to that in court? Because, in certain circumstances, insanity can be helpful."

"Oh yes, the M'Naughton defense. Unable to distinguish right from wrong, or to foresee the consequences of your actions. I'm thinking more of the type of insanity that has you here asking me to turn over files that I wouldn't give you in a million years."

"If you even knew how to find them?"

"Of course," he said, as he thought, _Oh shit_. "If I even had a bloody clue how to lay hands on Spike Harker's files, I would never give them to you."

"See, because, I just might expect that, if you had no idea how to get the files, that would have been the first thing out of your mouth. We wouldn't even need to be having this conversation, because there would be no way for you to help me. But you didn't start out with, 'I can't,' so much as, 'I wouldn''t.'"

_Shit_, Wesley thought again and, because he had no good answer, unloaded his gun into the target. _Shaky, Pryce_, he thought, knowing his aim was off, even before Lilah pressed the button to bring the hole-riddled papers forward.

"So," she said, leaning close to him, whispering in his ear again to avoid the noise. "What is it that you thought I wanted from you?"

"Information," he said. "To find exactly how much I know about what happened to Ethan Rayne. So that you could try to negotiate an arrangement that closes my casefiles, and does minimal damage to your organization. Before I brought it all out into the public eye. I was going to say 'no,' of course, but I thought I would let you plead your cause. Maybe even give you a chance to do the right thing."

Lilah's head went back and she let out a lusty, full-throated laugh. Even with their earplugs in, and sound barriers between the cubicles, a few of the other shooters turned to look at them. "Adorable," she gasped, wiping real tears from her eyes. "Lindsey was right, you're absolutely adorable."

He heard the name _Lindsey_ with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "This investigation has nothing to do with McDonald, or the Moon case."

"Oh, I beg to differ, Wes. It has everything to do with it. You might say it's a mirror image. Because once again, my dear Bloodhound Boy, you are barking up the wrong tree."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, and now the beast that had lived in his stomach for over a year bared its teeth and started gnawing into the old hole in his gut.

"Don't you? Let me spell it out then. A girl that your good friend Will Harker has special feelings about takes a little tumble. Your instinct tells you it's the boyfriend, and the evidence points that way, but it's not quite enough to make a case. Everything in your brain, all those rules and procedures that mean so much to you, tell you not to let Will within a hundred miles of the case. But this Will means a lot to you. Friend, partner. Blood brother, that's one of the rumors – one of them. You can't bear to see your friend in pain. You think you have some evidence, you let it slip to Will. Suddenly there's more evidence, and it doesn't quite make sense how it got there. You must have a good fairy. A guardian angel. You don't ask questions. Ends and means. All that jazz. You're all set to close the case, give McDonald what he deserves. Only he isn't there. He isn't anywhere. And you're left thinking that just planting enough evidence to make a case in court wasn't enough for Spike the Wonder Dog. And suddenly, you're not so much the cop who turned a blind eye, as you are an accessory to murder."

"Insane," he repeated, while those teeth bit into his stomach, and his brain went, _Oh God, oh God, oh God_.

"And you know what the kicker is? My absolute favorite part?" Her lips brushed his ear. "Lindsey didn't do it. And Spike didn't do Lindsey."

"How could you know that?"

"Same way I know Wolfram and Hart didn't hurt Ethan Rayne. Wrong tree, bloodhound,"

He stared at her. "You're as good as admitting. . ."

"I'm admitting nothing. I simply make it my business to know things. If you want to know about Rayne, ask your friend Spike. Ask him how he knows so much about it. And why he's so eager for you to follow the bread-crumb trail he's putting down."

"So your theory," he laughed. "Is that Harker didn't kill Lindsey – the suggestion that he did, incidentally, being so preposterous that it hardly deserves comment." _Liar liar, pants on fire,_ and then, with a stab of ridiculous hope, _Could it be she's right? Could I really have misjudged his motives so completely? Did I only jump to conclusions because it's what _I_ would have done if I had lost my lover? Am I so eager to attribute my own darkest impulses to Will, that I wrecked our friendship over my own paranoia?_ And now this new information to process, "And now you're suggesting, what? That Harker _did_ kill Rayne, and then tried to help me close the case? Do you expect me to believe that?"

"Honestly, Wes? I don't care what you believe. This isn't about you. This was never about you. Excuse me," she said, looking down at her hip. "My vibrator is going wild." She picked a cell phone off of her belt. "Yes. . .yes. . .everything's secure?" Looking at her watch. "Right on schedule. Efficient and excellent work, as always. And yes, I'll tell him." She snapped the phone closed. "I don't expect you to believe anything. I expect you to get me what I want. And then you can have what you want."

"Out of the question."

"Does two hours sound reasonable?" She reached into her pocket and pressed a slip of paper into his hand. "Get Harker's files to this location. I think the 'tell no one' goes without saying. And. . . do hurry. I mean, there's no real rush from my point of view. But having a deadline adds to the drama. And, well, I wouldn't want your girl to be uncomfortable any longer than she needs to be."

"My girl?" he repeated. And then he realized that he had never known a stab in the gut until now. A copper's worst fear was placing his partner in harm's way. He lunged toward her. "What have you done to Buffy?"

"Buffy?" Lilah held him off with a straight arm, and stepped out of his reach. "Don't you move." She held up the phone. "Speed dial. You don't want me to press this button until I'm safely out of the building. Oh, and as for Buffy? I'm sure Dr. Burkle would appreciate that you were more worried about that other dainty American girl than you are about her. Nevertheless, Fred does say hello."

No, he was wrong. wasn't a copper's worst fear at all. "Fred," he stammered, and then all he could do was say it again. "Fred."

Lilah shrugged. "I can't force her to like you, Wes, there's only so much power in the universe. But she's quite looking forward to the next time she sees you. And hey." He started after her again, and she pointed at the phone in warning. "That's something."

Wesley braced himself against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to fight off nausea, to get some control over his muscles. _Fred, oh God. Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred. Wolfram and Hart has her, she's as good as dead._ And then determination seized him and, he thought, _No, she's not dead. But when I get through with Harker, he'll wish that_ he _was_.


	8. Giles the Ripper

Buffy noted from the letterbox that "Giles, R" lived in a flat above the bookshop. The store's sign indicated that it should have closed for business at six, and now it was approaching nine. But the door to the shop stood ajar, and the room was fully lit. Spike simply walked through, flipped the sign to "Closed," shut the door and turned the bolt behind him. "Staying open past hours, Ripper, you're apt to owe a fine."

The bookseller looked up from his desk, where he was examining a binding with a magnifying glass. "Why, hello Sergeant Harker. . ." His face lit up on seeing Buffy, and he added "_Bonjour, mademoiselle!_" Then he frowned at Spike. "A fine? This isn't a pub."

"And I'm not a copper." He jabbed a thumb at Buffy. "And far as I know, she's not French. Now we've cleared up those basic misunderstandings, let's get to the ones we actually give a shit about. Detective Constable Summers here has been laboring under the impression that you didn't know anything about the death of Ethan Rayne. And that you told her sergeant as much."

"_Her_ sergeant?" Giles pulled the gold-rimmed glasses down to the bridge of his nose and peered over them at Buffy. "You work with Sergeant Pryce?" He frowned. "Then why are. . .?" He looked at Spike. "If you're not a copper anymore, why . . .?"

"It's true," said a voice from the back of the store, and Buffy was once again startled by the small, intense young man she had met the day before. "She was in here with Sergeant Pryce. And she's had her picture in the paper. She's here from America."

"America?" Giles repeated. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his tweed jacket and, as he spoke, removed his glasses and began to rub the lenses vigorously. "I don't understand, is this meant to be some sort of international criminal investigation that I've stumbled onto?"

"Nope," Buffy said, "Just an exchange program. But I'm a legitimate DC here in Yorkshire, and I'm supposed to be working the Rayne case with Wesley. Only Wesley decided he didn't want to be too share-y with information. We're concerned that he's working outside the, um, parameters of, well, jurisdictional authority, and. . ." Buffy was waiting for her automatic bullshit generator to kick in; this was an instinct that Liam had told her every good cop should have, but unfortunately hers was failing her.

Giles continued cleaning his glasses pointedly – Buffy had never realized that this was an action that could be performed with a point, but the bookseller was proving her wrong. "So, the two of you are conducting an unauthorized investigation," he said, "of Wesley's unauthorized investigation?"

_OK,_ Buffy thought, _When you put it that way, it sounds kind of stupid._

"Forget Wyndsley," Spike said, with mounting impatience. "Just tell the bird what you told me."

Buffy glared at him, "Bird?"

But Giles was looking at the boy, who, Buffy now noticed, was staring at them fixedly. "Jonathon," Giles said quietly, pulling some paper from his desk. "Can you perhaps go over these inventory lists for me, while I talk with the officers?" The boy didn't move, and Giles softened his tone. "Please, Jonathon."

"You just want me to leave," the boy said flatly.

"This doesn't really concern you," said Spike.

Jonathon flung the papers down on the desk and whirled at Spike. "You don't know me," he said. "You don't know what concerns me. Mr. Giles thinks that talking about Mr. Rayne will upset me, because Mr. Rayne was my friend. And he was my friend, and if you're talking about him, then I am concerned."

Something in the boy's eyes threatened to break Buffy's heart. She remembered the book he had been reading when she met him – a science fiction paperback, like some of the items in Rayne's collection. And then what he had said to her, about how he had come to be a stranger in a strange land: A friend. I met a friend.

"Jonathon," she said gently, "We're trying to help your friend."

"You can't help him," he said, looking at her like she was an idiot. "He's dead."

She heard Spike suppress a snicker at this, and wanted to kick him, but she forced herself to stay focused on Jonathon. "We're trying to solve the murder." She felt like a kindergarten teacher, the way she was speaking, and she hated the idea of Spike being amused. But something about Jonathon brought out an instinct for patience in her.

"Fine." Jonathon picked up the papers and looked at Giles. "I'll finish the stupid inventory. And you guys can talk about what you want. But don't treat me like I'm stupid, and don't lie to me. I don't like liars."

The two men watched Jonathon's progress to the back of the store with intense interest. Giles seemed to want to be sure he was gone before saying anything more. Spike, though, had a satisfied smirk that Buffy didn't quite understand.

As soon as the door closed, Spike said, "So, Ripper. That Rayne's new partner?"

Giles whirled on him, and said through clenched teeth. "Leave the boy out of it, Harker. He's innocent."

"Oh, you're quite certain of that?"

"I satisfied myself on that count, yes. If I didn't, I wouldn't have him working for me. Ethan and the boy were friends; they met on the Internet through a common interest in book collecting. Jonathon had just lost someone close to him, he was a bit at sea, and so he came here to work for Ethan. In books, and nothing but books. If he had been involved in any other aspect of Rayne's life, I would have known."

"Really? And you're sure you're not just turning a blind eye because, after all this time, you can't bear the though of old Ethe having a new partner?"

At this point, Buffy raised her hand. "OK, whatza whooza which? Are you guys talking about what I think you're talking about, and . . . what's it got to do with Wolfram and Hart?"

Both men turned to Buffy, as if she was the one saying things that didn't make any sense. Giles started cleaning his glasses again, and Spike's face hardened into a smirk. "Giles, why don't you fill the constable in on your partnership with Ethan Rayne. It won't go further than this room, I guarantee it. Ancient history. But she really deserves to know how a stuffy old bookseller gets a nickname like 'Ripper.'"

Giles sighed and replaced his glasses. "Are you familiar," he asked Buffy with the concept of the 'long con'?"

Buffy frowned and looked from one man to another, unsure what to make of their serious expressions. "Are we still talking about sex?"

Spike snorted with laughter, Giles glared at him, then frowned at Buffy. "When were we talking about sex? Ethan Rayne is my former _business_ partner."

"And by business," Spike interjected. "He means crime. The long con, as in a confidence game. Moving from town to town, setting up fake identities, cheating old ladies out of their life savings, all that charming sort of thing."

"There were no old ladies," said Giles. "We never took anyone who couldn't well afford it."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you only conned those who were less witty, attractive, and likable than the two of you. Just like Redford and Newman in _The Sting_, with a few more crumpets."

"I was a very young man," said Giles. "Somewhat naïve, and, as Spike has said, it was all ancient history. Ethan and I ran our last game in Manchester in 1976, almost thirty years ago. We were supposed to be helping some wealthy Cuban exiles retrieve property stolen by the Castro regime – a variation on the old Spanish prisoner scam. The long and short of it is --"

"How about just the short?" snapped Spike.

"I got caught. He didn't. I paid my debt to society, but I never identified my partner. I never sold him out. When I finished my five years, I made no attempt to contact Ethan. I went to work for a bookseller in London and, starting with very little, began to acquire a modest collection of my own. But I was never respectable enough to begin my own establishment. Then a few years ago, my uncle passed away, and he left me this shop. I came to Yorkshire and discovered I could start with a clean slate. Until Sergeant Harker started putting the pieces together."

"And I suggested," Spike said, with an eagerness that made Buffy want to smack him a little, "That young Ripper might want to provide me with certain information from time to time, in exchange for my keeping certain other information to myself."

Buffy frowned. "So what? Like you said, Giles, you'd served your time. And the statute of limitations on any crimes Ethan committed with you would be. . ."

"Long over," said Giles. "And the money long spent. And," he said pointedly, looking at Spike. "I am not a rat. From time to time, I did explain certain general concepts about the workings of the seedier local elements, as I understood them. But I never named any names."

"A man's reputation is coin of the realm," Spike said gravely. "Small-town folk don't necessarily want to be buying their books from a man with that kind of record. They always wonder what kind of deal they'll be getting. Though I must admit, our Ripper does look the part of the dotty bookshop owner quite nicely." He leaned close to look at the sleeve of Giles' jacket. "I think it's the tweed. And that posh little accent you picked up somewheres." Turning to Buffy, he confided, "He used to talk like me."

"Yes," Giles said sourly, "And you in no way picked up that daft accent about the same time as the leather coat and the peroxide-hair."

"Image," Spike said gravely, "Is essential to effective policing." To Buffy, he said, "I'm sure Wesley mentioned something about that."

"So what does all this have to do with Rayne's murder?" Buffy asked.

"I thought, nothing," said Spike. "Considering, when I was doing the investigation, Giles swore up and down he hadn't heard from Rayne in years. Then last week, just as Travers decided the case needed reopening, Giles here decided to remember a few conversations."

"You must understand," said Giles. "Rayne's murder looked very much like a domestic dispute. I'm afraid that Ethan was the type of man to bring less than desirable sorts into his home. Street hustlers, and the like."

"My opinion, you might say it takes a hustler to know one," Spike interrupted with a leer.

"When I want your opinion, Spike," Giles snapped, then paused. "I'll never want your opinion." To Buffy, he said, "I could easily see such an eventuality occurring, unfortunately. And so I put the content of our other conversations in the back of my mind. But then when Jonathon was reviewing the inventory from Ethan's collection. . ."

"Hold up," said Buffy. "You have Ethan's collection? Shouldn't that be evidence?"

"Released from police custody," said Spike. "After a thorough record was taken for my files."

"No," Buffy snapped, "I've seen your files. And you. . ." she turned to Giles. "It sounds like you've been withholding evidence. Why were you so sure that the killer was a street hustler? Jonathon couldn't have been involved in the murder?"

"Jonathon has been very helpful to me," Giles said. "I have every belief in his utter innocence – which, frankly, was one reason that I didn't come forward with the information that Ethan had given me. The police had no knowledge of Jonathon's existence, and I did not want to mix him up in this matter further."

"In other words," Spike said, "He lied. Now why don't you tell her the good part, about how you woke up last week and suddenly you knew who killed Rayne?"

"You know you killed him?" Buffy said in disbelief. "You know and you told Wesley and we're sitting here talking about book inventories, and Paul Newman movies?"

Just then, Spike's head turned and he pointed at the door. "Hear somebody? Ripper, put down the lights. I'm gonna see who's there. Summers' Day, back me up with your judo."

"Right. Judo." Buffy rolled her eyes, though no one could see, and then pulled out her nightstick and followed him anyway.

Someone was knocking on the door, calling, "Giles, Giles?" Buffy recognized the voice with a mixture of relief and dread – how was she going to explain being here with Spike? She hung back behind a shelf as Spike opened the door for Wesley, who walked in and, promptly, punched him in the jaw.

Spike fell to the floor, and Wesley glared down at him. "You. . ." He gasped. "You. I should kill you with my bare hands. If anything happens to Fred, I think I will kill you, and I'll do it slowly."

Forgetting herself, Buffy stepped into the light. "Fred's it trouble?"

Wesley looked up at her and blinked. "Buffy?" And Spike took the opportunity in the moment of confusion to grab Wesley's legs, and knock him to the floor.

_Men,_ Buffy thought. _How the hell do they ever solve anything?_


	9. Wheels Within Wheels

Spike had Wesley on the floor, with a a fist drawn back to punch him in the face. Buffy grabbed Spike's elbow and used the force of his own strength to spin him backwards. She dug a knee into his side, and forced him to his feet, pulling him away from Wesley.

"Bloody hell!" Spike yelled. She twisted his arm behind his back. "Oww!" He turned. "What the hell are you playing at?"

She gave him her sweetest smile. "You asked for judo."

"Thank you, Buffy," Wesley panted, climbing to his feet. "Now I'll just. . ." He flew at Spike and grabbed him by the throat. "Squeeze real hard and see what comes out."

"Hey!" Buffy released Spike's arm and jumped between the two of them. She pushed Wesley back. Spike tried to lunge over Buffy to get at the other man, but he pulled up short and seemed to trip.

Giles stood over him. "Are you two quite finished?" asked the bookseller, turning on the lightswitch.

"You saw all that, right?" Spike panted, appealing to Giles and Buffy. "You saw how he started it."

"Oh, that's rich," said Wesley. "Do you know what his nickname was when we were DC's together? It wasn't 'Spike'. . ." He imitated Harker's tone, giving the syllable a flavor of contempt. "And it wasn't William the bloody Bloody. People used to call him-" And he went into Spike's accent again, this time giving it a whiny, petulant turn. "'He started it!'"

"They usually did," said Spike, sounding properly aggrieved.

As if to prove the point, Wesley lunged at him again. This time it was Giles who came between them, pushing his hand into Pryce's breastbone. "Call me a stuffy old bookseller," he said, but suddenly he didn't sound like one. Suddenly, Buffy could see this man as a 'Ripper,' very well indeed. "Let's cut these lights and get back in the back of the store, so we can talk without advertising our presence." He nudged Spike and Buffy did the same thing to Wesley. Glaring at each other, the two sergeants led the way back to Giles' office, as Ripper said, "It doesn't seem that you two killing each other will improve the situation for anyone."

"I don't know." Buffy stood, stretched, and looked from Wesley to Spike. For the moment, they seemed content to breathe heavily and glare at each other. "Personally," she said. "I was kind of hoping they'd kiss."

"What???" Spike and Wesley gasped at once, and they turned their stares on Buffy.

"The very idea. . ." said Wesley.

"I don't know what the bird's on about," griped Spike.

Giles looked at Buffy for a moment, then started to laugh. When he spoke again, he was fully back in librarian mode. "I say," he gasped at looking at Buffy. "That was quite good."

The current and former sergeant looked at each other again, but this time with shared exasperation. "I don't know what she's talking about," said Wesley, at the same time Spike said, "I don't really see why that's funny."

Buffy and Giles shared another look, then burst into laughter again.

"Bloody hilarious," said Wesley, brushing off the sleeve of his jacket. "How's this for funny? Our friends at the dog, sheep, and deer have Fred."

The laughter stopped. They all seemed frozen for a moment, until Spike stepped toward Wesley. "Damn," he said quietly, and Buffy could even have sworn in that one syllable that the city accent was gone. "Wes. . ." He stepped toward Pryce, a hand held out as if to touch his arm.

Wesley flinched, and slapped the hand away. "Don't you dare try to comfort me, you stupid wanker. This is all your doing."

"Oh, is it, then?" Spike drew back, his voice and his pose both hardening. "So all the times I tried to tell you they were trouble? You take no responsibility for not listening."

"Clearly," said Wesley, "I was listening. I've been following every lead at my disposal. And that's why they're using Fred to get to me. Or rather using Fred to get to me to get to you. Because, what she – they – the dog. . ."

"No need to talk in code," Giles said grimly. "Everyone here knows what' s going on."

"I wouldn't exactly say that," Buffy interjected. "But what I do know, Wes? It's no thanks to you."

"Buffy," he sighed. "I didn't want to lie to you. I was trying to prevent exactly this type of situation. I thought that the fewer people involved. . ."

"So how's that working for you?" she snapped. Wesley visibly bit his lip and lowered his eyes, and Buffy felt sorry for the barb, but she fought her instinct to apologize. He had made the wrong call, and he ought to suffer a little. Maybe that pain would help him to help Fred. Still, she spoke more gently. "Fred never came to the pub tonight. But are you sure. . .?"

"I only have Wolfram and Hart's word for it," Wesley answered. "But Fred's not answering her mobile. She hasn't been back to her flat, and her car is still parked at the gun range."

"Gun range?" Buffy repeated.

"Yes, we had a little. . .meeting, well, appointment . . .training session. . ."

"Date?" Spike suggested.

"That hardly matters now, does it?" Wesley snapped.

"Don't think I care about your excuse for a love life," Spike answered. "But it matters if the Wolfies think she's your one and only. That's the way they work." Then in a softer tone, he said, "What do they want?"

He looked pointedly at Spike. "_Your_ case files. I couldn't find you, Harker, so I came here looking for Giles. Seems like you two had the same idea. So stop playing games and take me to your bloody files."

"And you think you turn them over, they give her back?" Spike demanded. "Just like that?"

"Maybe not," Wesley said. "But what choice do I have? They said not to tell anyone, and although procedure might call for me to ignore that advice. . ."

"Bugger procedure," Spike said.

Wesley almost smiled. "I'm shocked to hear that from you. Truly." Then with a harder edge, he said, "What was in the Rayne file, Spike? The real one."

"Is anybody ever gonna tell me who killed him?" Buffy demanded. She looked at Giles who looked at Wesley.

"Any luck with that?" Giles asked.

"I thought Giles was supposed to be the one who knew!" said Buffy.

"Well. . ." Giles shifted uncomfortably. "It's not that I _know_ precisely who. But I know why, or I think. . .and I know who was behind it."

"Wolfram and Hart," said Buffy. "I think we're all there."

"Except for Wolfram and Hart," Wesley added. "They are trying to pin the case on Harker here." To Spike's look, he said, "I'm just telling you what I heard. Of course, I don't believe her – them. I'd really like to believe Giles. If I thought he was being honest with me. But now I'm beginning to believe that he's holding something back."

The bookseller sighed, and looked around at all of them. "I suppose you all deserve the whole story. Wesley, you may be shocked to learn that Ethan Rayne and I were once heavily involved in a criminal enterprise."

Wesley blinked. "You? You could have mentioned that before." He frowned. "I thought the Ripper thing was a joke."

"In a non-violent capacity," Giles said. "Well. . .for the most part. Ripper was for 'rip-off artist,' which is, in a manner of speaking. . ."

"They were con men," Buffy interjected. "Like Sting." Then she frowned. "I thought he was just a singer."

"_The_ Sting," Giles said, then, "Never mind. The important thing is that I was making an honest trade here in Yorkshire, and then one day about eighteen months ago, Ethan Rayne walked into my store and said he had a business proposition for me. Ethan sometimes made sales out of his private collection. For some reason, Ethan was keenly interested in a certain young man's book purchases. He showed me a picture and wanted to know if I had seen him. I hadn't, I didn't know what it was about, and I didn't want to know. I thought no more about it. It wasn't until later that I saw the young man's face on the news. Lindsey McDonald."

"By the time I made the connection," Giles said, "Ethan had been dead for some time, and Lindsey was missing. And I began to believe that Ethan was trying to blackmail Lindsey in some way, and had crossed some powerful people." He looked hopefully at Spike. "There must be something in the case file that would help untangle this mystery?"

Spike spread his hands. "That's the thing. My file – assuming it existed – told me nothing. As much as I worked the case, I got nowhere." He said, almost sheepishly, "I suppose that's why I was being all cryptic. I really thought fresh eyes would help."

"Especially Wesley's?" Buffy said, determined to make Spike pay his old blood brother a compliment.

"Yes," Spike sighed. "Old Wes and musty books, sounded like a heavenly match. Nothing in the file but the crime scene reports and Rayne's inventory and business records. Which, as far as I could tell, were worthless. Not worth killing for, and besides, nothing was missing."

"The odd thing," Wesley said, "Is that Lindsey McDonald didn't seem to own a book. I turned the place upside down after Drusilla. . . I mean, while I was investigating. . .I just put it down to an illiterate American thing, I suppose."

"Oh, he had 'em," said Spike. "Kept some books in a box under his bed. And another in the back of the closet. Don't ask how I know that, but I did spend some time in the place." He coughed. "Dru and I usually met up at her studio, but sometimes. . . well, I always figured he was embarrassed to have his books out because they weren't fancy smart people books. Just. . ."

Wesley looked at him. "Old pulp paperbacks. Of course." He shut his eyes and let out a breath. "There were none by the time I investigated. This is about the books. Either Drusilla's killer took the books out of Lindsey's flat, or he destroyed them himself. Whichever, someone didn't want them found."

Buffy frowned. "So they'll probably be destroyed by now. What do the Wolfies think they're going to find in the file?"

"They don't want to find the file," Wesley said quietly. "Not to use it anyway. They want to destroy it. Spike, wasn't it your theory that Lindsey was trying to leave Wolfram and Hart's employ?"

Spike nodded. "I had a tip he'd been in touch with some sort of higher authority. Hit a brick wall when I asked about it, which is as good a clue as any you've bumped into the special services. Some funny buggers with a lot of letters and numbers in their name."

"Spies?" Buffy demanded.

Wesley sighed. "I have no trouble believing that certain activities of Wolfram and Hart have implications for national security. So let's just suppose that McDonald was planning to leave, and he tried to take something with him. Documents, perhaps."

"Go on," said Spike.

"Encrypted documents," said Wesley. "So maybe. . . yes! It's not the books themselves that matter. It's just knowing which books they were." He raised his eyes in triumph. Spike and Buffy looked at him blankly. "Come on, didn't anybody else read their Graham Greene?"

Spike shrugged. "For A-levels. I remember lots of Catholics."

"Wasn't he the Indian guy in _Dances with Wolves_?" To the looks of the others, she said, "What? I used to be really good at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon."

"Twentieth-century novelist," said Giles. "Father of the modern spy thriller." He turned to Wesley. "You're talking about a book code. But isn't that a little. . ."

"Old-fashioned?" said Wesley. "But you see, that's the beauty of it. Even with computers and sophisticated encryption technology, it's bloody impossible to break the code, without knowing the original volume." To Buffy and Spike, he explained, "Each letter in the code corresponds to a certain letter on a certain page in a specific book. And it has to be exactly the right book, exactly the right edition, which would explain Lindsey purchasing obscure and out of print editions. But not too obscure, as he'd need to be able to find two identical copies. I imagine if we had access to Rayne's inventory lists, we could use them to reconstruct Lindsey's purchases, if only because we'd have two volumes sold on the same date."

Buffy frowned. "That's sounds like a really complicated way to do a code."

"Yes," Wesley agreed. "It would be quite labor-intensive, so we can assume that we're not talking about a large volume of documents. But even just a few messages, if they are incriminating enough, could be worth Wolfram and Hart's time. Meanwhile, Lindsey is smart to ensure that he is a valuable asset. Because he's the only one who knows where the code came from. It's worth someone's while to keep him alive."

"And someone else's to get him dead," said Spike.

"Well, I didn't say he was _that_ smart," said Wesley. "My guess is, the documents are out there somewhere, and Rayne's inventories hold the key to decoding them. The firm killed Lindsey, and now they're out to destroy the last of the evidence."

"But," Buffy said, "How do they know we haven't made copies?"

"They don't," Giles said quietly. "In fact, it's quite possible that they're using Fred's abduction to figure out where Wesley would go to look for Harker's files, identify everyone who has knowledge of the case, and, well. Eliminate them. Us."

"Oh, wonderful," said Spike. "So it's a good thing they don't have us all in one place now, so they can swipe away all the pretty chickens in one fell swoop. Except, oh right." He glared at Wesley. "They do!"

Wesley ignored the implication and said, "The files are in Giles' storeroom, aren't they?"

"What?" demanded Giles.

"What?" said Buffy.

"Oh, how thick do you think I am?" said Spike. Then he sighed. "Yes, they're in the storeroom, and, no, there aren't any copies."

"In the storeroom," said Buffy. "Along with Rayne's actual inventory and. . . Giles. Exactly how much did you say you trust that Jonathon guy?"


	10. Nooks and Crannies

"Jonathon?" Giles frowned. "What does this have to do with Jonathon?"

"Well," Buffy said, "He's been the one making himself all cozy and familiar, after hours, with Rayne's inventory. Down in the basement where Spike's files are. . ." She looked at him. "Very well-hidden, I'm sure?"

"This place has a lot of odd nooks and crannies," said Spike. "Plus, um, the room's pretty messy."

"It is _not_!" Giles objected. "Perhaps my filing system is a bit eccentric, but. . ."

"Hey!" Buffy snapped her fingers. "Focus. Let's just send someone down there, casual like, and see what he's up to."

Spike frowned. "Might be dangerous." He leaned down and started to pull up the leg of his jeans. "Giles, exactly when did this boy show up looking for work, and do you even know that he was actually friends with Rayne?"

"Jonathon's been with me for some time. . .well, come to think of it, shortly after Ethan's death. I never actually saw them, and. . .good God, are you allowed to have that?" Spike had straightened, removing a small pistol from an ankle holster.

Wesley, who had grown oddly quiet, turned and put a hand over his eyes. "God, Harker, I'm not even seeing that."

"Not surprised," Spike snapped back. "Looking the other way is what you're good at, ain't it? I'm gonna go see what that boy is doing around my files, and I'm not taking any chances. Anybody back me up? Xena, Judo Princess?"

"You don't actually even know what judo is, do you?" Buffy said, but lifted her nightstick and made to follow him.

"William. . ." Wesley began, with a note of warning in his voice. "No, go ahead. Check on the documents, and bring Jonathon out here. Buffy, I'm trusting you to keep Harker from doing anything insane." Giles started to follow Buffy and Spike from the room, but Wesley took his arm. "Rupert, a word." When the others were out of earshot, Wesley said, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I hardly think this is the time. . . "

"Boyfriend? Roommate? Houseguest? Dog? Cat? Large vermin?"

"No, no, and. . .however many nos!" Giles frowned. "Why?"

"No one lives above this shop but you?" When Giles shook his head, Wesley pointed at the ceiling. "I didn't want to panic the others but, unless I'm quite mistaken, someone is moving around upstairs. Are the units connected from the inside?"

"Yes, there's a small staircase. The door is between gardening and erotica. It's partially obstructed by the shelves, but. . . "

Wesley started to move. "I'm going up there, now. Before Harker gets back. He'd go in shooting."

"And you'd be committing suicide. You've got nothing _to_ shoot."

Wesley opened his jacket to show small gun jammed under his belt. As Giles' eyes widened, Wesley explained. "Target pistols are required to be checked in at the range, and secured. But if you're a regular patron, and a copper and MP's son to boot. . ."

"People tend to assume you're following the rules."

Wesley replaced his jacket and went to work pushing the heavy briefcase out of the way. "It's not much in terms of firepower," he said, his breath growing heavy with exertion and agitation. "But if you get the bullet to the right place it doesn't have to be. Tell the others. . .something, but give me ten minutes."

"You don't know what kind of weapons they could have up there!" Giles tried to block the door. "You're not going alone." Wesley lifted the gun and pointed it at Giles's chin. "Oh, you must be joking. You'll lose your badge over this."

"These people took _Fred_, Giles, and it's my fault, and if this saves her, I don't imagine I'll care about the consequences. And if it doesn't save her, well. . ." He looked down. He couldn't finish.

Giles stepped aside, and let Wesley pass into the small stairwell. When Giles started to follow, the other man turned and lifted the gun again. "No."

Ripper Giles gripped Wesley's arm and forced it down. "If you ever point that thing at me again. . ." he hissed, and then his voice lowered into an even pitch that was somehow more menacing. "Well, then, you'll never point it at me again. Besides, it's my flat. In fact," he said, pushing past Wesley, "I'll go in first. I'm the one who knows the bloody way."

*

Spike descended the stairwell to the basement with his gun at the ready, swiveling back and forth as though he had been watching too many SWAT team exercises on "COPS." His motions were making Buffy edgy, too. She had been the one to suggest that Jonathon was a suspect, but she didn't really think he was dangerous, much less armed. Coming to the UK was supposed to take her away from the constant fear of gunfire around every corner. Then again, she had assumed that Spike was unarmed, but that turned out to be false, and even Wesley, and Fred of all people, apparently spent nights off at the firing range. _Those things. Hardly ever useful_, she thought again. _But who listens to me?_

"Jonathon?" she said cautiously, not wanting to startle him. Spike pushed the door open with his foot, jumped through – a little melodramatically, for Buffy's taste – and spun around with the revolver stretched in front of him.

"Jonathon?" Spike asked, then turned to Buffy, "That's odd." She came through the door after him, and looked around, but there was indeed no sign of the boy. Spike shrugged. "Well, guess he took off."

Buffy frowned and started to walk around the room. "Oddly not comforting." There were a few tables, some boxes, a large desk, and many many shelves of books. The dust smell, bad enough upstairs, was almost overpowering. "Do you think. . .?"

Spike pointed. "Back door."

"Also not with the comforting." She walked toward it and looked out. "Should we go after him?"

"You really think he's a threat?"

"You were the one coming in here like the Impossible Mission Force."

"Can't be too careful," he said. "But what's your gut tell you?"

"He's a scared kid," Buffy admitted. "And we weren't very nice to him. He probably went home to play video games."

"And we've got bigger things to worry about."

She looked at him. "You think they're really coming for us?"

"What's your gut tell you 'bout that?"

"That it's bad. And that it isn't going to do us much good to call anybody, because they won't believe us, and we might be putting Fred in greater danger." Buffy pulled herself up to sit on a table and said, "So what now?" Then she looked down at the stacks of books on either side of her. "I wonder if this is where J-man was working. Hmm." She picked up some of the titles and started to flip through them. They were thin, yellowing books, with the sides of the pages stained red or green, a little like the miniature Bibles that she remembered campus crusaders passing out during the one year of college she had actually endured before her mother got sick. But the covers were odd, pictures of spaceships or sparkling cities. "Look at this." She read off one cover. "It is the year 1999, and intelligent robots now rule the earth, Think about that, someone sat down to write about this impossibly distant future and it's already past. It's when I graduated from high school."

Spike just glanced at the books and shrugged. "Don't care. But as long as we're down here." He turned to the desk and started pulling it away from the wall.

"Getting your files?" she asked, not offering to help. It was his own lame-brained information games that had started this whole mess. "You think Wes is right about what the Wolfies want?"

"I don't know." He started to knock on the drywall paneling behind the desk. "Tell you the truth, Buffy, I don't give a bloody damn what they want, or why they want it. I used to think it mattered, but it's not like we're going to beat them, ever. If we're just lucky, we can give them what they want, and it will be enough to get Fred back home safe."

"Do you really think they'll. . .?"

"Yes." He stopped his examination of the wall for a moment. "No. I don't think they'll, Buffy. I know they'll." He let out a heavy sigh. "Poor Wes." Then he looked up at Buffy, while his hands went back to work on the wall. "Don't tell him I said that. But if things go down like I think they might? I hope someone puts a bullet in his brain, too."

"That's harsh."

"I don't mean it to be. But if something happens to Fred, in a bad way, and he blames himself? What's left of that man won't be worth saving."

"You can't really believe that," Buffy said. "You lost someone who meant a lot to you and. . ."

"And look at me now, right? Ouch!" He yanked his finger out of the growing hole in the paneling and stuck it in his mouth. "Bleeding. . ." He pulled it out and examined it in the dim light. "Bleeding blood."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yes." Spike pounded his hand against the wall. "I'm just not sure of _where_ I'm doing it. Hid these papers a while back, all right?"

"Can I help?" she sighed. He just smiled in response. Buffy slid off the table and moved over to where he was working.

"Knock," he said. "See where it sounds hollow. I thought this was the place, but Giles must have moved the desk." Buffy knelt down beside him and started pounding the wall. "Yes," Spike said, "Yes, I lost Dru, and yes, I'm all right. I've had a worse fucking year than I thought any human being could endure, and I'm all right."

"I know about bad years," she said quietly. _A whole damn bunch of them in a row. Quitting school. Burying my mother. Finding out my father was an even more complete asshole than I had always suspected. Raising Dawn on my own, while going through the police academy and eighteen hour shifts on patrol. Working my ass off to send Dawn to a college I can't afford, so she can send me e-mails about all the fun she's having with her new friends. And then Liam. No wonder I was so eager to pack everything up and come to another country._ "Believe me," she said, "I know."

"Do you?" Spike tilted his head and looked at her curiously, but she didn't volunteer any more. "Thing is, I have a philosophy lets me bear it. I find my joy where I can. Squeeze every little good thing out of life. There's precious bloody little, I've found. So I don't hope for much, and I expect even less. It don't take much to keep me going. Wes? Probably never had a moment's joy in his life." He went into an imitation of Wesley's accent. "That would be wrong." Resuming his normal voice, he said, "So he has to construct some elaborate fantasy to get him through his self-imposed misery, and it won't take but a small thing to break it. And losing this Burkle girl? That wouldn't be a small thing." He knocked on the wall and looked up. "Here, I think I found something. There's a hammer on that table, can you. . .?"

Buffy got up and brought it to him. She handed it over, but his skin lingered a while against hers. It was odd in this moment, when they should have been hurrying. But something told her that touch was important now, however trivial a touch it was. What Spike was saying seemed important now, too. And if they had a chance of dying tonight, it only became more important. "Why do you care?" she asked.

"About Wesley?" He laughed, and not in a happy way. "You mean just because he doesn't care about me?"

"I'd hardly say he doesn't care," said Buffy.

"Yeah, right. Cares in the hating me sense." Spike snorted. "Otherwise, I don't think Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is all broke up about his old buddy Will. And by the way, I do not know what that kissing comment was about."

Buffy smiled. "Believe it or not? I was almost totally joking."

"So what about you?" He reached his arm back into the cavity behind the panel. "Hello. . . I think. No, maybe a little to the right?"

"What about me?"

"Kissing."

"Wesley?" she demanded.

"Anybody. What are you, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-four," she answered, with some indignation, then added. "Almost. So what?"

"So, any girl worth knowing has had some great love tragedy by the time she's twenty-four. You act all superior about the whole thing, but anybody who never had their heart broken at least twice by that age? I don't want a thing to do with 'em. I see you smiling. What was his name?"

She only hesitated a moment before saying, "Liam."

Spike's face scrunched in disgust. "A mick?"

"No." She smacked his arm. "And that's a slur."

"Hate speech," he said gravely. His eyes lingered where she had touched. "I bet there was a memo."

"Anyway, Liam is American. Third-generation Irish-American, anyway. Third-generation Irish cop. LAPD Detective. He was the one who got me interested in homicide work."

"Of course, he would be. Sounds like a match made, Summers' Day. What was the problem?"

"He was third generation, so was his wife. I mean, it wasn't the problem that she was a cop. Just that she was his wife." Buffy swallowed. "Is. His wife."

"And the story?"

"Like you'd think. Predictable. Boring. Not to me, obviously. Probably not even to him. But not a story anybody else should give a shit about."

"Well," he smiled. "That's what our lives are, mostly. Bunch of stories nobody else will ever give a shit about. And, hello. . ." He pulled a last bit of paneling aside to expose the edge of a large duffel bag. "Ladies and gentlemen. . ." He pulled the bag out until it crashed onto the floor. "We have ourselves some case files."

"No, I'm sorry," said a familiar voice from a direction that Buffy couldn't place. "I don't believe that you do." Buffy looked around and saw Spike, as confused as she was, reach for his ankle holster. "This building has some odd little nooks and crannies, you might have noticed. Look up. No, wait. Don't bother." And Jonathon Levenson dropped feet-first onto the table, from a crawl-space in the ceiling, where he had been observing the entire conversation.

In his hand, he held a very large gun.


	11. Reversals of Fortune

Giles stopped at the top of the stairs and put his ear to the door. He held up his hand for silence, although Wesley hadn't been about to open his mouth. They listened for a moment together, and Giles nodded. Wesley took a grim satisfaction in knowing that he had been right. There was movement inside, and the dull murmur of voices.

Cautiously, Giles opened the door to a crack. It made a slight squeak, but after a moment, there was no change in the voices, and he swung it open wider. Giles slipped out into the hallway – slowly, Wesley thought impatiently, as though he were being poured. Once the doorway was clear, Wes walked past him, then took out the gun and pressed himself against the wall. He looked at Giles, who mouthed, "Now what?"

_Good question_, Wesley thought. The truth was that he didn't have much training in this type of armed-and-dangerous scenario, and he had even less experience. Typical crime in Yorkshire simply didn't call for it. His best ideas about how to behave in this situation, unfortunately, came from films. And film directors didn't seem especially interested in how to avoid a gunfight; they wanted to cause one that looked bloody cool. Of course, the hero always saved the girl, in the film, but he usually got shot in the process. Not fatally; probably the shoulder, God forbid the stomach. Maybe just an extremity if he was lucky, but Wesley had to admit he liked all his body parts, even the extremities. He wondered if a bullet would be hot or cold. He wondered if. . ._oh, shut up. You'll do what you have to do when you have to do it, or else you won't. At least it will all be over soon_. Maybe literally, all over, and he wondered why the hell that didn't scare him more. _Think about that later, Pryce. If you're not dead, that is._

Looking at Giles, he nodded down the hall, where the voices seemed to be coming from, "They're in my study," Giles mouthed. Wesley pressed his back against the wall, with his gun at the ready, and started to inch in that direction. Giles followed, and as they moved, as quietly and slowly as they could, the voices became clearer.

"The things are here," said a male voice. "They have to be. That was Wesley's car outside." The voice stirred an odd memory; its accents were distinct but – it couldn't be him, could it?

And then a female voice rang clear. "Wesley isn't here." His heart almost stopped, hearing his own name in those familiar accents.

Fred was in the next room; she was alive and conscious, and at least didn't sound like she was panicking or in pain. He turned to Giles and mouthed, "Fred." Then the man must be her captor. Wesley's mind raced. There didn't seem to be an immediate danger. Assuming there were only the two of them, Wesley could catch the man off-guard, could catch who ever he was – no, but it couldn't be, that was ridiculous; accents could be deceiving. It was probably just someone who sounded like him. Wesley looked at Giles, but his face registered nothing. Well, if the bookseller was telling the truth, it wouldn't.

The man spoke again. "They're probably downstairs."

And Fred. "Wesley and Giles? Or the documents?"

"I think we should sit it out here for a while. Watch if we can see them leave."

"Of course you do. You're a big chicken, and Wesley could kick your ass. . . "

_Whoa,_ Wesley thought. _That's my brave girl. But reckless._

". . .Giles could probably even kick your ass." Giles looked annoyed at the "even." _Well, to be fair,_ Wes thought, _Fred hasn't seen his real Ripper side._

"You're forgetting one of us has a gun," said the man. "People get surprised, guns go off. Even when people mean well."

"Chicken," she said. "Bawk bawk."

"You're the one who wanted to keep this thing from your own people," said the man. "I'd think you'd be in favor of avoiding them. My phone's going to ring any minute. I'm gonna need to answer it." _Dammit,_ Wesley thought. _There's no way to get a visual. If I come around this corner, they'll see us. _ But if the kidnapper had to answer his phone, maybe he would be distracted for a moment.

"If your partner hasn't bailed on you," said Fred. "She doesn't strike me as the reliable type."

"She'll call!" The man snapped. "We're in this together. She's not going to abandon me, and I'm not moving until we hear from her."

"Bawk bawk," Fred repeated. Wesley tightened his grip on the gun, wondering if he could possibly love this woman more. Spunk, she had spunk. "It's not like I want to help you out here, but are you sure you've got the ringer on?"

"Oh shit," said the man. "Look, I'm going in my pocket so I can check, don't get panicky."

That sounded like an opportunity. The man would be distracted looking at his phone. Giles nodded at Wesley. Wesley took a deep breath and moved swiftly into the kitchen, with his gun drawn. "Drop your weapon!"

In the dim light of the kitchen, Wesley had a few seconds to take in the scenario. It was much like he had imagined. Fred was there -- and, as impossible as it seemed, the man that he had suspected had his hand on a cell phone. And one of them held a gun, but it was Fred Burkle who had it trained on the man. At least, she did for a few seconds. But when Wesley called out, she lowered her gun hand and looked up at him. "Wesley!" she cried, and although he couldn't pinpoint identify her tone, it wasn't exactly a "Thank God you're here to rescue me!" kind of cry. As she was looking up, the man dropped his phone and lunged for Fred's arm. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted the gun around, until it was pointing at Fred's chin.

"I've got a better idea," said Lindsey McDonald. "Why don't you drop yours?"

*

"I'm so sorry, Fred." Wesley rolled his head back against Fred's shoulder and grunted in pain. "Not so hard, Rupert." And to Fred. "I am so very very unimaginably sorry."

"You're sorry?" said Fred. "Ouch, Giles, that's almost bad touching! No, Wesley, it's all my fault. I'm the one who got us into this mess. And I'm the idiot who dropped my gun."

Giles tightened the bungee cord that bound them together, back to back, in kitchen chairs, and stepped away so that Lindsey could examine his work. "If I may go on the record," said Giles. "I'd like to observe that both of you are right. And that I did absolutely nothing to deserve having my home and person violated in this manner."

Lindsey swiveled the gun to point it at Giles. "Shut up, Rupert." Then he patted his belt, where he had stowed Wesley's target pistol, and trained his much more impressive thirty-eight automatic on Fred. "Remind me, Winnie. What's that noise a chicken makes?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "It sounds kind of like, 'That east-Texas cocksucker Lindsey McDonald can go shove a spiny armadillo up his ass.'" She turned to Wesley apologetically. "Sorry about the language. I'm a little worked up right now." Then back to Lindsey she said, "And your syphilitic power-suit mannequin of a girlfriend too."

Giles frowned. "I'm sorry, and I have absolutely no idea why I'm even trying to understand this situation, but is Drusilla alive as well?"

"Drusilla?" Lindsey sneered. "Drusilla was weak, and she was stupid. She let herself become a liability."

"So that's why you threw her out a window?" Wesley screwed his eyes shut. _Damn, I was right about that all along_.

"Or did your new new lady-love pull that?" asked Fred. To Wesley, she said, "Do you know. . .?"

"I'll take three guesses," he sighed. "The first two don't count, and they're all Lilah Morgan. And for your information, McDonald? Your girlfriend smells like a French whore."

Fred giggled, then craned her neck around to frown at him. "How do you know that?"

"Oh," Wesley stammered. "It's just a figure of speech."

"I knew _that_," said Fred. "I mean, when did you meet Lilah?"

"At the gun range, after you left. I was digging into Wolfram and Hart, and the clues led to her. While I was meeting her, I guess our boy here picked you up. I suppose that's _why_ he picked you up."

"What?" Fred said. "No, I think they went to you because of me. Actually, it wasn't going so bad, for a while there because. . ." Turning to Lindsey, she said, "How often does the idiot you've been trying to find for eleven months decide to show up and kidnap you? And then let you take his gun!"

Lindsey sneered at her. "Pot paging kettle. And guess what? Last guy with the gun wins. One Texan to another? I'd be more embarrassed if I was you, and I'd got my gun took in spite of all that Quantico training."

"Quantico?" said Giles and Wesley together. And then Wesley sputtered, "Oh, so you just grew up target shooting on the farm in Texas did you?"

"Actually," she said apologetically, "You're the one who said that. I just let you assume."

"So really, it's impressive that I was so competitive with you, considering I'm entirely self-taught."

"Well," said Fred. "I did kind of miss on purpose a little. A lot."

"Would that Buffy were here to say 'Focus,'" Giles groaned. "Ms. Burkle, you're with the FBI?"

"No!" she said. "I'm just – I'm exactly what I look like. Almost. The Quantico thing is just an academy for local law enforcement officers and. . . well, I know some people. The job with CID here is legit."

"But," said Lindsey. "When some of her old buddies showed up to investigate Wolfram and Hart, it turned out she was a useful point of contact." They all looked at him. "She's been keeping an eye out for me, _and_ an eye on Wesley. Her people were trying to pressure me into turning traitor on my old employers. Lilah and I thought it was best that I should disappear."

"Are you just going to sit here and explain your whole evil plan?" asked Giles. "Because I always find those bits in the films quite tiresome."

"No!" Lindsey said defensively, then frowned at his cell phone. "But it's not like I can do anything else before Lilah calls." He glared at all of them. "Shut up." Then he backed away, keeping his gun trained on Giles, and started pressing buttons on the cell again. "Come on, baby, pick up the phone."

"There's an international multi-agency task force," Fred started to explain.

Wesley could only focus on part of the story. "You were keeping an eye on me?" he repeated. "As part of your job?" _Great,_ he thought. _Bloody great. I'm going to get myself and the woman I love killed, and not only is she not in love with me, even the friendship that I thought we had, was just some double-agent spying-on-me kind of thing._ The only blessing he could pull out of the whole bloody mess was that Fred didn't know how he felt, that he hadn't made an idiot out of himself, and if they were going to die, at least they would die without her ever knowing.

"Well. . ." she said. "I met you when I got here. And then when you started investigating Drusilla's murder, some people thought it would be a good idea. . . It was totally my call whether to let you in on it or not. I thought not, I thought the less you knew the better. I was just monitoring the progress of the case every once in a while. And tonight at the range, I knew we were closing in, so I almost told you. But you sounded like you didn't want to hear; I was afraid you suspected, and I didn't want to draw you in against your will."

He remembered her words now. _You and I need to have a real talk. I've been putting this off for way too long, but there are some things you ought to understand. _ Well. It seemed bloody obvious now, didn't it?

Wesley sighed. "The good guys are not exactly known for their communication skills, are they?" Thinking as he said it, about Buffy and Will. _They're downstairs. I guess we should have left a note. They'll come upstairs and they'll figure it out. Confronted with superior numbers, Lindsey will see sense and put down his. . .great big scary gun. In the face of Harker's stupid pea shooter, and Buffy's judo. If Will doesn't just come in shooting and get us all dead. If they even think to come up here. _

Lindsey was still swearing at the phone. Fred leaned her head back so that her lips brushed his ears and whispered. "OK, Wes. It will be OK. Just keep him talking."

_Does she know something_ I _ don't know_? he wondered. "So," Wesley said, as Lindsey put down his phone. "While we're waiting, indulge us. Once your plan succeeds, it won't matter what we know, right? You and Lilah have a foolproof escape route. You thought you had it before, turning everything over to the authorities and going into witness protection. But your firm gave you second thoughts."

"Like 'bawk bawk, I'm a chicken,'" said Fred. "Those kinds of thoughts."

"So you tried to prove your loyalty," Wesley continued. "You killed Drusilla and destroyed your own code books, thought you were careful enough to get away with the crime. But you didn't count on Harker loving Drusilla, and bending the rules to get at her. You realized if you stayed around, either Harker would kill you or you'd go up for murder. And if it came to that, your firm would kill you before the trial. Because they wouldn't want you in a position to trade up in order to get murder charges reduced. You needed to disappear, and you needed an ally within Wolfram and Hart. Enter Lilah."

"Oh, I don't know," said Giles. "Look at the way he's watching that phone. I'm willing to bet it was Lilah's plan from the beginning. I don't think the boy is capable of an independent thought."

"I wonder," said Wesley. "How long is it going to take Lilah to realize he was a bad investment."

"He's a fuckup," Fred agreed.

"Pot," said Lindsey, turning the gun on Fred and Wesley in turn. "Kettle. Shut up."

"So where were you hiding?" Wesley continued. "Chained up in Miss Morgan's dungeon, maybe, until she convinced you you liked it? That was a pretty smart move, falling off the map like that. Wolfram and Hart thought that MI-whoever had you in protection. The authorities -- from CID to the Spooks and the FBI and the bloody Mounties, or whoever is in on this -- thought Wolfram and Hart had eliminated you. Almost the perfect crime."

"The only person close to guessing the truth," said Fred. "Was Ethan Rayne. Tell me, Lindsey, did you do him yourself, or was that Lilah?"

"I knew Ethan," Giles said quietly. "Lindsey was a little more of his type. Which makes it all the more embarrassing that you lacked the brains to destroy all the evidence when you had the chance. So you had to come out in the open, this last time, to wipe out your entire trail. You just have Harker's files to get rid of, and the two of you can disappear for good. Am I getting warm?"

"Talk all you want," said Lindsey. "I don't care." He stared at the phone again. "Lilah's going to call."

"Oh yes," Wesley said soothingly. "I'm sure she is. She's the dependable type. Don't you think, Fred? I mean, lesser people, like you and I? We might see the whole deal is going balls-up. We might be in a hurry to sell Lindsey out. But I'm sure Lilah's not like that. She's loyal, just like a . . . what's something loyal, Fred?"

"Lassie," said Fred. "Lilah's a regular old Lassie in a power suit."

"Shut up," Lindsey put down the phone. He moved toward Wesley and Fred, holding the gun out in front of him. "Lilah wouldn't do that," he said. "Lilah loves me. You have no idea what that's like." He stopped, and his gun hand almost stopped trembling, as a smile curled on his lip. "Well, maybe you do, Pryce. But she loves me back. You'll never know what that feels like, in your whole pathetic little life."

Fred turned to him. "You're in love?" she said. "Oh, poor Wesley! They haven't threatened your girlfriend, have they?"

Lindsey smirked and raised an eyebrow toward Wesley, who thought, _OK, Harker, if you're going to bust in here and kill us all, you may as well do it now._

Lindsey opened his mouth to speak, and just then his mobile rang. He turned, and Giles lunged for the phone. Lindsey scowled but didn't move as Giles answered. "Abductions are us, Rupert Giles speaking. Yes, thank you. We're all right for the moment but. . . Yes, we're at that address. A little assistance would not be out of order."

"What?" Lindsey cried out, rushing for the phone. Giles covered the mouthpiece and said. "It's an Agent Doyle with. . .sorry, who were you with? With, 'never mind who we're with.' He and his partner, Agent Gunn, want to know if you'd like to speak with Miss Morgan. Or rather, I suppose, he would like to know if you want to speak _before_ Miss Morgan does. Because it seems she's very interested in telling _everything_ she knows. And whatever deal they're offering? It's likely to be first-come, first-served."

"Shit," Lindsey scrambled for the phone. He kept the gun trained on Giles, but as he listened, the color drained out of his face. Finally, the phone fell out of his hand and he looked around the room. "Who?" he asked. "How?" He narrowed his eyes and focused the gun on Fred. "You called somebody."

"You know I didn't," said Fred. She looked apologetically at Wesley. "I probably should have, but I was worried Lilah might do something to you."

"Same," said Wesley. "You and Lindsey. So who. . .?"

"Well," said a voice from the back hallway. They all looked up in the direction of the passage that led from downstairs. "It never hurts to have a man on the inside." And the boy Jonathon stood there, brandishing a gun that looked larger than his head.

Fred beamed, "Jonathon! I knew you'd get here on time."

"Lindsey McDonald," said Jonathon. "I put you under arrest, by the authority of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Behind Jonathan, Harker posed with his small pistol and smirked. "Superior numbers, Lindsey. Use your head for something besides a bad-hair garden, just this once."

Behind Harker, an unarmed Buffy just waved. "Hi guys."


	12. All that Ends Well

Once Lindsey started talking, they couldn't get him to stop.

"Shut up, Lindsey," Fred shoved him down into the chair Jonathon had just released her from. "Thanks, J." The young Mountie smiled as he bent down to fasten handcuffs behind his back. _Mountie?_ Buffy wondered. _Are we really supposed to call them Mounties_?

"I'm talking," Lindsey babbled. "They told me to talk and I'm talking. It was Lilah's idea, from the beginning. She plotted the whole thing. I didn't even know what the firm was involved in, until Lilah. . ."

"Shut up, Lindsey," said Wesley, rubbing the stiffness out of his wrists. "This is no longer Yorkshire CID jurisdiction. You can tell your story to Agents None-of-Your-Business when they arrive, momentarily. But I have a feeling anything that comes out of your mouth is just going to contribute to a lot of people in this room being very very angry at you."

"People like me," said Harker. He moved to lean against the wall, a few feet away from Lindsey, and kept his eyes trained on the erstwhile lawyer. That, at last, seemed to do the trick.

Watching it all, Buffy felt a surge of sympathy for Spike. On the one hand, he had been cleared of suspicion in Lindsey's murder by the most compelling evidence possible. But now he had to sit here and listen to the man who was at least partly responsible for Drusilla's death try to weasel his way out of the blame.

"So Jonathon," Fred smiled at him. "I guess you're the big damn hero."

"Well," Jonathon said modestly. "Spike and Buffy helped."

"After a little initial shyness," Buffy said. "Along with the figuring out we were all on the same side. And, you know. The ceremonial waving of guns." Looking around the room, she said, "Can I just emphasize again? These things. . ." She pointed at Lindsey's automatic, which Giles had confiscated and given to Jonathon for safekeeping. "Hardly. . .ever. . . useful."

Fred smiled sheepishly. "At least nobody got shot."

Buffy sniffed. "Not for lack of trying."

Giles looked up at Fred, "So you actually brought Lindsey here? Rather than the reverse?"

"I got the gun away from Lindsey," Fred said. "And I thought Lilah must have done something to Wesley. I made Lindsey drive to Wesley's place, but on the way, I saw his car here."

"And then, naturally, you broke into my flat."

"Well, the door was unlocked, and. . ." She looked around. "This is a really nice place, Giles." Then with a winning smile. "Don't sue?"

"No, of course not," Giles sighed. "I'm only trying to discover why I've suddenly become popular with the criminal element and law enforcement alike." Casting a glare at Harker he said, "To say nothing of the narrow margin where they intersect, and _hide things in my basement_ and. . . Well, hello officers."

Two men in dark suits stood at the door. "Can we come in?" asked the first, a short dark-haired guy, whose coat didn't excactly seem to fit him. Before Giles could answer he and his partner were through the door. "Agent Doyle," said the man, "Belfast office."

"Agent Gunn," said his partner, a tall and, Buffy thought, seriously hot African-American guy in a very sharp suit. "Liasion, New York branch." Then his serious expression fell away, and he reached down to put an arm around Fred. "If it ain't my Fred. Teensy-weensy and in charge. I heard you almost got yourself expunged."

She giggled. "The reports of my near-expungement have been greatly exaggerated. Everybody, this is. . ." And as Fred launched a chain of confusing introductions, Buffy leaned over to her sergeant and asked, "New York branch of what?"

"Good question," Wesley muttered. Buffy perched on the arm of Giles' sofa. Wesley lowered himself onto the cushion beside her, but he never quite took his eyes off of Fred and Agent Gunn. "Dear God, how tall do you think he is? Are most Americans that tall?"

"Cheer up, Wes." Buffy patted his shoulder. "You're tall. Of course, Jonathon's short and he saved the day."

"Yes, good point," the sergeant said drily. "Not the tallest or the most heroic, here, then, am I?" The two agent were busying themselves with Lindsey, searching him and apprising him of his rights.

Wesley stiffened as Fred walked toward him and Buffy.

"Hey, you." Fred stretched her arms over her head and flopped onto the sofa next to Wesley. "Long day," she said. "Long long long long day." Her hand brushed his shoulder, and then she leaned up against him. Buffy watched the helpless, slightly pained look on Wesley's face, and remembered what Spike had said. _If he actually got his hands on her, his brain would explode. _ Fred snuggled up against him and said, "You saved me. You're my friend and you saved me."

"Actually, Fred," he said stiffly. "I didn't. I almost got you killed. Pretty much everybody in this room had more to do with saving you than I did. Jonathon is the big hero."

"True." Fred patted Wesley's arm. "True true true." Whispering so only Wes and Buffy could hear, she said, "Jonathon is so good, the RCMP even waived the height requirement." She held a finger to her lips. "Don't tell." Then out loud, she added. "He's the one who figured out what Lindsey was doing with those books. "

"Of course he did," Wesley nodded, "Good for him." And Buffy could almost hear his brain going, _I'm not the cleverest in the room, either_.

Fred laughed some more and stretched, then pecked Wesley on the cheek. "I'm glad you're here though." She spread her arms to include the whole room. "I'm glad you're all here." Then she frowned and turned to Wesley. "Only one thing I don't understand. Why did you think they kidnapped me?"

"Because Lilah said so. And because, well, they did." Buffy noticed, then, that the agents had paused in the process of questioning Lindsey, and were watching Fred as well. God, even they could see something was up with her and Wesley. Everybody seemed to get it but Fred.

"No no," Fred went on. "I don't mean, 'why did you think it?' I mean, what did you think they kidnapped me for? You didn't know that I had any relation to the case, until I told you in here. You must have been confused about why they took me. I thought Wolfram and Hart's M.O. was to go after family members or, significant whatevers. Maybe your partner, but just someone you work with sometimes?"

"Well," Wesley stammered, deliberately not looking at Buffy. "They might have thought – because we were at the range together like that, they might have assumed – which would be silly."

"Oh Jesus," cried Lindsey from across the room. "Give me a fucking break." To Gunn and Doyle, he said, "If you're taking me to prison can you do it now, so I don't have to listen to this crap?"

In unison, Wesley, Giles, and Buffy cried, "Shut up, Lindsey!"

"No, wait a minute." Spike, who had hardly moved from his pose of watching over the prisoner, peeled himself off the wall and walked toward Fred. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think the tiny Texan is right. There's something needs to be said here."

"Harker. . ." Wesley said, with a note of warning in his voice.

"If you don't tell her," Lindsey said, "I will. Lilah and I had them under surveillance for like a day and we could tell. . ."

Spike whirled on him. "Shut up, Lindsey!"

Gunn and Doyle had given up all pretense of being caught up in their work, and were watching the exchange with intense interest. "And you were worried about missing some lame soccer game," said Gunn to his partner. "This is so much better."

"What?" said Fred, looking around the room. "Am I missing something?"

"Yes," said Spike. "Yes, you bloody well are."

"Fine," Wesley stood up, spreading his hands. "Forget it, I'm out of here."

"Dr. Burkle," said Spike. "Look at this man. Wesley, look at her." He groaned, but turned back to her. "Wes, Fred. Fred, Wes. The poor man is sodding mad about you. Has been since he first laid eyes on you. I don't know, maybe longer."

"Jesus, Will," said Wesley, "Can you ever shut the hell up?"

"Well is it true, or ain't it?" Spike demanded. "Now, me?" He jabbed his thumb toward his chest. "From time to time, I may have been love's bitch. But at least I'm man enough to admit it."

"Oooh," said Gunn from across the room. "Your move, Wes."

Wesley looked up at him, probably so he wouldn't have to look at Fred. "I'm sorry, who are you again?"

"OK, he passes," Gunn smiled. "Your move, then, Fred. What you gonna say to that, Dr. Burkle?"

"What I'm going to say," Fred said, rising from the sofa. "Is that I have had an extremely long and grueling day, and I may not be entirely responsible for my actions. So I'm about to do something thats very unprofessional." She reached a hand out to touch Wesley's shoulder. "Is that true, what he said?"

"Is it..? I. . .well. . ." He looked helplessly at Buffy, who she shrugged. "Yes, it's true Fred." And pronouncing the next words almost as if they were choking him, he said, "I – love – you." He looked away from her and around the room. "All right everybody? Take your best shots."

For once, the room was completely silent.

"OK," Fred said. "Here's the thing." She raised her hand and turned his cheek so he was forced to face her. "Tonight, when you came in here, with that. . ." Glossing over the illegal gun, she said, "With that look on your face. Like you were determined to save me, to be this big hero? And, yes, you were completely wrong about what was going on. But given the situation, everything you knew? It was the bravest, truest thing you could have done, and just that moment when I saw it was you, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life."

Buffy heard Spike choke a little at this, but she glared at him. He kept quiet. As for Wesley, he was not paying attention to Spike. "Fred," he said softly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No," she said. "I'm not all right. I'm tired and I'm starving and cold, and I want to go home, and I 'd really like for you to kiss me right now."

Everyone in the room could hear the clock on Giles' mantel tick in the dead silence as Wesley stared at her. Then he turned to the two agents. "I think maybe we need to check her for concussion."

"Oh," Fred groaned, "Fuck it." She raised her hands to either side of Weley's face, pulled him down toward her, and kissed him hard on the mouth. The room erupted in something like applause.

"Wanted to watch soccer," said Gunn in contempt.

"Football," said Doyle, resolutely unimpressed. "Leeds versus Man United. Good football match and a pint of Guinness."

"You sad sad little Irishman."

Fred pulled out of the kiss, and looked up at Wesley. "Was that clear enough for you?"

He shook his head. "Not even close."

"So," Buffy nudged Spike, as Wesley pulled Fred in for a longer, deeper, and much more impressive kiss. "Nothing's exploded yet."

"Not yet, Summers' Day." Spike shrugged. "Just give 'em a little time."


	13. Epilogue (Keen Spirits)

"How long do we have to sit on this couch?" Buffy muttered, leaning over to Spike. Gunn and Doyle had taken Lindsey off to the station, but Jonathon was supervising the team of technicians who had descended on Giles' building, scouring the scene for loose ends. "I hope Mr. Mountie hurries up." Then she half sang, "I want to go ho-ome. My butt's getting so-ore."

Giles, pacing next to them, peered down at her over the top of his glasses. "I believe that in America, that almost counts as poetry."

"Damn skippy," she nodded. "Haiku of the Bored Buffy." Leaning forward, she pointed at Giles' balcony, where Fred and Wesley were huddled in quiet conversation. "Nobody seems to care that they left the room."

"Nobody," Spike pronounced, "Wants to watch them."

"Oh please," Giles said, "Whatever they are doing, it is all your fault." Then, glancing at Buffy, who was bouncing with impatience. "I say, Harker, your young partner's resilience is quite remarkable."

"It's all that fresh blood," said Spike. He tapped her shoulder lightly, with what Buffy hoped was supposed to look like brotherly affection. "But she ain't mine, is she, Wes?"

Buffy looked up to see that Wesley had come back into the room. The sergeant stopped in front of them, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another, as Fred went over to talk to Jonathon. "I feel the need to say some things. To all of you. First, Giles? I'm dreadfully sorry to have dragged you into all of this."

"You didn't," the bookseller answered. "Harker did."

Spike nodded to acknowledge the justice of this.

"Be that as it may," Wesley persisted, "I feel as though the entire incident has been an unforgivable intrusion and. . ."

"I have some books," Giles said. "Very lovely books, on the history of ballet. Theoretical physics. And nineteenth-century children's literature. Perhaps a bit on the pricey side, for the casual customer, but I'm sure that a man of your taste and discernment. . ."

Wesley smiled. "I'll be in the shop on Monday."

Giles nodded. "And speaking of books. . . . !" He called to Jonathon. "Do your men need to touch those? They're sixteenth century. . .Sorry, I need to deal with this. Monday?"

"Monday," Wesley promised. As the bookseller walked away, Wesley sighed. "That's going to be an expensive apology."

"Please," Buffy said. "You try to tell me shopping is punishment? You get to play with old books, ease your conscience, and buy lots of presents for Fred, all at the same time."

"Yes, thank you." Wesley rolled his eyes, then, in a serious tone, said, "Buffy, I am sorry. I am beyond sorry for everything that occurred this week. I behaved in a way. . .I told lies. I was within my authority, I think, but it was shabby of me. I didn't show faith in you. I helped put you all at risk, and you came through. You have more than proven yourself and. . ."

"We can start with a new slate tomorrow," she said. "I'll be in bright and early."

"Well, I _won't_," Wes answered firmly. "A night like this deserves a bit of a lie-in the next morning." Buffy thought she could see him not quite manage not to glance across the room at Fred as he spoke. "Meet me for lunch at the Bronze, say, noon. No. Twelve-thirty. One. We'll draw up a new plan of attack from there. Now, Harker. . ." He swallowed. "William. . ."

"Yes, Wesley?" Spike cast his eyes at Buffy, and she could see that he wasn't eager to make this too easy for his ex-partner.

"There's been a lot of misunderstanding. Miscommunication, misapprehension. Lack of trust where there should have been trust and. . .oh hell, I'm sorry."

Spike watched Wesley for a moment, and Buffy could see him choking down his own instinct for sarcasm. "I suppose," he finally said, "That I wasn't always a bright blinking beacon of virtue. So I can understand. . ." He swallowed, and said gruffly. "Oh, bloody hell. Thank you, Wes. That actually means something."

"And if. . ." Wesley began, with a look that said he was sure he would regret it. "There's anything – any way I can help. . ."

A slow smile curled across Spike's face. "Yes." He nodded toward the balcony. "A word in private, though." Wesley started to follow him out, shrugging an apology at Buffy. "No wait," said Spike. "You too, fresh blood. Got a feeling you can back me up on this." When they were outside, he leaned toward Wes and said, "What's on your agenda for the rest of the evening?"

"Tonight?" Wesley blinked. "Well, Fred left her car at the gun range, so I've offered her a ride. And then -- "

"You're gonna get laid?" Spike interrupted.

"Am I. . .?" Wesley choked. "That's certainly none of your business."

"So that's a maybe." Spike shrugged. "Least it's not a no. You want to do something for me? You go home with the good doctor, and you turn that maybe into a 'yes.'" He pointed a thumb at Buffy. "Your constable here was just saying tonight how you'd be a better sergeant if you were getting some."

"Hey!" Buffy yelped. "Don't drag me into. . ." Then, to Wesley's annoyed look, she had to admit, "I did say that. So maybe it's not a bad idea. I mean," she added hastily, "If she wants."

"Oh, come on," said Spike. "She wants. Tell the man, fresh blood."

"We're back to the part where I don't speak for all women everywhere." Buffy glared at Spike, but then shrugged. "She probably does. I don't know if anybody ever pointed this out before, but you are pretty hot."

"Fine." Wesley backed away from them, spreading his hands, "I will give it the old college try. While I'm a giving mood, any other requests?"

"Yes," said Spike. "Show the girl a good time. Show yourself a good time. If that works, take her out again. And if by some crazy chance it turns out you actually _like_ being happy more than wallowing in misery? Buy a ring and pop the question. Take her for a honeymoon in the south of bloody France, come home and have a lot of babies. Live together in joy and harmony and whatzitcalled? Bliss. For years and years, until you die peacefully in bed surrounded by fat grandchildren."

"You have to admit," said Buffy. "It's not a bad a plan." Then she frowned. "Why would he want his grandchildren to be fat?"

"Yes," said Wesley, "I was wondering about that part myself."

"It's just an expression," said Spike.

"I never heard it," said Wesley. "Now 'smells like a French whore'? That's an expression."

"Wesley?" Fred called from inside the flat. "They say we can leave."

He turned, waved at Fred, then looked back at Spike. "Duty calls." He saluted, and a smiled played on his face. "I will do my best to discharge this commission. But. . . Why does any of that that matter to you?"

"Because, you stupid git," Spike answered. "You can still have that with the woman you love. We should all be so lucky."

Wesley's smirk faded into a look of concern. "Will, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Spike pointed towards Fred. "Just answer the call." Wesley smiled and started to leave, when Spike called. "Oh, and Wes? Call me Spike." Wesley nodded, turned again. "And. . . I'll be applying for a private inquiry license. I'd appreciate your recommendation on that. Your father's too if you can swing it."

"I'll see what I can do. Spike." Wesley promised, then frowned. "Are you at all interested in a reinstatement with CID?"

"No," Spike said firmly. "No no no no no."

"Why not?"

"Too much paperwork."

"Paperwork?" Buffy and Wes said together. They both stared at him.

"Yeah." He bent to light a cigarette, then looked up at them. "Paperwork." They kept staring. "The fuck did I say?"

"Buffy?" said Wes. "If you want to hit him? I'll swear that he started it."

*

When Lindsey took Fred, she had left her coat behind. So Wesley draped his jacket over her as they walked to the car. She smiled her thanks, and squeezed his hand. He couldn't believe how natural this felt, already, but at the same time, he could hardly shake the feeling of walking around in a dream.

"Honestly, Fred," he said, "I'm not really sure I understand. I didn't save you in there. I just made everything worse."

"You didn't save me?" She looked up at him, puzzled. "Do you think I only date guys who save me? Or I showed up to work today and decided I was going home with the biggest hero? Because, honestly, Wes. I _like_ Jonathon, but not in the way that makes me want to. . ." She placed a hand on the back of his neck, and pulled his mouth down toward hers.

"So," he said softly, after a long moment. "What now?"

"Now," she said. "I get my car back. Then go home. Take a shower. Crawl into bed for about a million years."

"Oh," said Wesley, a little disappointed but understanding. _When did I start taking Harker's advice on women, anyway?_ And he'd had a hell of a long day himself. "That sounds nice."

"It will be nice." She tilted her head looked at him. "Want to come?"

"Do I – want to go home with you?" His mind raced,trying to work out whether the shower and bed were included in the offer. Because, God, Fred in the shower, with steam and heat and sudsy oily things and. . .

"Wesley?" she prompted, making him realize he hadn't answered.

"Sorry, did I not say 'yes'? I was probably trying to think of something to say more clever than 'Yes.'" He let a moment go by, then said. "Yes."

She laughed in relief, leaned forward, and kissed him again. He was feeling her warm lips, thinking about warm water, when he heard a voice.

"Get a balcony, kids." They both turned to see Buffy, smiling.

Spike, half-amused, half-sneering, said, "You make me want to puke."

"Oh please," said Fred, squeezing her arm tighter around Wesley's waist. "You just wish it was you."

"What?" Wesley gasped, and heard Spike uttering something less delicate at the same time. Looking from Fred to Buffy, Wes said, "Why do people keep saying that?"

"I didn't mean he wanted to kiss me," said Fred. "Or," looking between them, confused, "You."

"Well who . . ." Spike began, then looking at Buffy, said, "I think _not_" at the same time that she said, "In his most pathetic dreams."

"Oh," Fred said, with an innocent smile. "My mistake." She squeezed Wesley's hand again, and nodded to the car, "Come on, my dread pirate Wesley. Shall we?"

And Wesley, whose higher brain functions hadn't been in the best shape since hearing Fred say the word "shower," smiled and followed her. "As you wish."

*

"Wow," said Buffy, as Wesley's car pulled away. "They are so. . ."

"Doomed."

Buffy whirled on Spike. "What?"

"A couple months, tops." He took a drag on his cigarette. "Seriously? I'm thinking more in terms of days."

"But. . ." Buffy protested. "All those things you said in there. It was so sweet. Everything you described, it was. . ."

"A happy ending?" He dropped the cigarette and smashed it with his boot. "You ever seen one of those in real life?"

"I. . ." she said. "Well. . . My friends Xander and Willow. Sort of, although. . .and Cordy and Oz. But then there was that thing. . ." She sighed. "Not exactly."

"Me neither. And when you're nineteen, you think maybe it's you. By the time twenty-four comes around, maybe you just know the wrong people. Get to be my age? You start noticing a pattern."

"God," said Buffy, "You're such a pessimist."

"Come back to my place and I'll show you something."

"OK, I was wrong. Apparently, in certain areas, you are optimistic to the point of delusion."

"My pathetic dreams," Spike sighed, "Have hardly stretched so far. But I do have something to show you." And besides." He smirked. "You have to ride with me. Your bike's still at the pub."

"All right," said Buffy. "But. . .and you probably can't even comprehend what a big deal it is for me to say this. I'm driving."

*

Buffy was amused to discover that William Harker had a fireplace, and that he wanted her to sit down in front of it. There wasn't a roaring fire or anything, but still.

"Seriously?" she said. "Are you gonna bring out cocoa? With little marshmallows?"

"Damn," he answered. "Haven't got any, but that would just hit the spot." To her amused smile, he said, "With a good shot of whiskey, of course."

"Of course," she said gravely.

He glared at her, and so she crossed her legs and sat on the carpet in font of the hearth – hearth? Was that really a word? – while Spike reached for something on the mantelpiece. "Here," he handed it down at her, then reached up to unhook a similar object from the wall above. Buffy looked down at the one in her lap.

It was a wide, lightweight wooden box, built like a three dimensional-frame. What was inside, honestly, looked a little like a third grade art project. Bits of random bric-a-brac were glued to the box. She half expected to see macaroni and glitter, but as she looked closer she made out the pieces. Matchbooks with the names of different pubs. A dried wildflower, the top from a pack of cigarettes, ticket stubs for some kind of concert. The corner of a menu from an Indian restaurant, decorated with golden elephants. Glued to the background was a photograph, torn in pieces -- Spike's face was in one corner, Wesley's in another. They had been looking at each other, maybe hands on each other's shoulders, smiling. It just looked like a lot of junk, but all of this debris centered around the snapshot of a striking young woman. She had dark hair, very pale skin, and intense eyes. Her mouth, drawn into a pout, was painted dark red, and her eyebrows were very black. "Is this Drusilla?" And seeing a newspaper clipping with a grainy photograph, "Hey, is that me?"

"Yeah." Spike lowered his eyes and put his hand to the back of his neck, a little sheepishly. "I know it's not very good or anything. It was more the idea of having it. Of making it. This," he said, showing her the object he held, "was, whathcacallit, the inspiration."

Buffy drew in her breath. "That's. . ." she said. "Wow." Spike held another box, constructed on the same general principle, but by someone who really knew what they were doing. Or else – really really didn't, in the sense of not being in touch with much of anything on the reality front. At the center was a small plastic doll, with the eyes blacked out. Around this focal point were glued and pasted bits of colored glass, pieces of metal – a paper clip, the head of a dessert fork, half of what looked like a whistle – smooth stones and pieces of paper, feathers, butterfly wings and torn bits of photograph. All of them were arranged in what looked like a random sequence, at first. But then you looked at it from one angle and there was a pattern, and then it was gone, and wait -- there it was again. Shades of red and black dominated, at least it seemed at first, but then there was gold, and green, and purple, and then it was very dark, and Buffy didn't know anything about art, but she could have looked at it for a very long time. She said softly. "Drusilla did that."

"Yup." Spike nodded, and lowered himself to the floor beside her. "I'm told it's worth money. One bloke even told me I could get a better price for it after she died." Spike mused, "I wonder if he's still looking for all his teeth?" He set the box down on the floor, and gestured for Buffy to put hers beside it. "Painting was her main line, but I always said, 'What'd I do with one of those?' I told her to keep it, or sell it to someone who knows what it's worth. So she made this for me. All junk she found in my flat. Or the yard out there."

"What's it. . .?" Buffy frowned. "It's, well, it's amazing, but. . . What does it mean?"

"Mean?" he smiled. "She could have read you a nice little lecture about what it meant. You wouldn't have understood a bloody word came out of her mouth when she was talking like that. I used to think maybe he did. One of the things I envied him."

Buffy let the statement hang in the air for a moment and said, "Lindsey?"

Spike nodded. "Smug little sod."

"He's going to prison," Buffy said.

"I know. Wish I could have had five minutes alone with him, before he did."

"Do you really mean that?" Buffy asked.

"No," he answered. "Wouldn't have taken five." Then he reached over and picked up the box in front of Buffy. "This was my sad attempt to make sense of things. Every day I was out working that case -- working it my own way -- I'd pick something up. Come back and find a place for it in here. You, I just ripped out of the paper because Wesley's name was in the article and I thought. . .not a following you thing, or any of that."

"Except that day in the garage you were following me."

"All right, that."

"And tonight at the pub."

"Coincidence," he said.

"Luck," Buffy said, then smiled. "Fate?"

Spike hefted the box in one hand. "Doesn't weigh much." He shook it. "Some of the stuff coming loose. And all those matches? It ought to go up easy." And before Buffy understood his intent, he flicked out his lighter, touched it to one of the matchbooks, and threw the box onto the stones of the fireplace.

"Spike!" she cried, as the box went up in flames. She started to jump forward, as if she could retrieve it.

He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. "Let it burn."

She started to pull away, started to say something angry, except that at that moment, she didn't want to do either.

"Calm down," said Spike. "I'm not about to burn the one Dru made. That . . ." He pointed at the fire. Is just a lot of junk. It needs to go away." He shook his head. "I'm glad Wesley's the one found McDonald, Buffy." _Buffy_ she thought, trying to remember if he'd called her by her name before. "I'm glad I didn't have those five minutes."

"Really?"

He shrugged. "Mostly. Not because I give a sod about Lindsey's sorry life. And not because I think living with his conscience will be the greater punishment, or any rot like that. Just because it wouldn't change a bloody thing. Drusilla hasn't been hiding out in Madame Morgan's basement of horrors. She's dead as a coffin nail. I saw her. And last time I checked, there's no cure for that. But."

"But?"

"But we gotta pretend we don't know that, don't we?" He picked up Drusilla's collage and stared, intently. "Pretend it never happened."

"No." Buffy took the box from his hand, and set it to the side. Then she was holding his hand, and it was warm, and he looked at her through curious blue eyes. "We don't pretend that," she said. "We never pretend that. But we can start something new." Remembering something, she reached into the back pocket of her slacks. "Do you have another one of those boxes?"

Spike furrowed his brow. "I could probably dig one up. You've got a mind to start a picture of your own?"

"Maybe. You think this will do?" She produced a small slip of white paper and placed it in his hand.

Spike looked at it and frowned. "Your lucky numbers are. . ."

"Other side." While he read the printed message, she said, "I got it in a fortune cookie, at the L.A. airport on my way out of town. Somehow I thought it might apply."

"Even in the darkness," Spike read, "A keen spirit finds the light."

In the moment before she kissed William Harker, Buffy thought of riding to the reservoir with Liam, of the dress her mother wore on the last night she walked out of their door. She pictured Lindsey's face when he realized his lover had sold him out, and Fred's dazzled smile when she discovered hers had been so near all along.

As she leaned in towards Spike, he frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Finding the light," Buffy answered. "I think I saw some, right over here."


End file.
